menetenmpis 


This  photograph  of  Mr.  Slept* 
tion  of  his  recent  visit,  while  " 


THE  old  order  is  dead,  or  IP 
o,,l  world  is  vanishing  witn  it.   There  is  a 
vast  unrest  every  where-the  unrest  o  that 
which  is  moving  away;  and  that  other   almost 
Ss.inKuishablefromit.theunrestoft^twluch 

s  coming  in.  Among  the  thousand  evidences  of 
de<*v  that  are  everywhere  about  us  there  is  as 
certainly  evident  the  signs  of  reaction  against 
that  doc-ay,  and  the  will  of  a  new  mode  to  be,  and 
to  function.  ., 

Socially,  politically,  economically,  plnlosop. 
callv,  artistically,  in  all  of  these,  and  in  the  sam- 
way*  in  them  all,  there  is  a  violent  turning  away 
from  all  that  went  before  us,  and  as  violent  an 
aH.-inpt  to  hew  or  blast  a  path  elsewhere,  where 
no  path  seems  indeed-but  the  path  is  there,  and 
will  be  found.  .         . 

Hy  the  romantic  artist  or  the  romantic  phi 
losopher!  For  we  are  now  in  the  Age  of  Romance, 
and  had  better  get  ready  for  it.  Under  Realism, 
(and  we  have  been  long  under  it),  man  can  be 
miserable.  Under  Romance  man  can  be  unhappy 
—the  difference  is  enormous,  and  well  worth 
striving  for. 

The  rediscovery  of  romance  will  be  as  disturb 
ing  an  event  for  mankind  as  the  disco- 
America  was,  for  the  first  sign  of  it  a. 
the  sign  of  a  new  dispensation.    An  era  is  com- 
pleted when  an  epic  is  written;    and  English 
literature  set  to  its  long  decline  with  Milton.  An 
era  is  commenced  when  a  romance  is  written;  and 
that  we  are  waiting  for.   The  interregnum  may 
seem  long,  but  interregnums  are  always  fruitful, 


work 


art.     J> 
later  sty 
ing  the  ~ 
ence,  come 

Roma 
not  bar- 

Trageut 
but  it  is  not 
the  unkr 
Romn 


whose  n. 
the  flesh  may 
personage  may  p. 


\ 


I  ONE  wishes  to  sum  up  the  value  of 
James  Stephens  as  a  poet,  now  is 
a  good  time. 

A  dangerous  thing  to  try,  perhaps: 
doubly  dangerous  for  an  American  city 
dweller.  For  here  is  a  man  so  untouched 
by  harshness  and  so  simple  in  attitude 
that  the  utterly  banal  pleases  him  as 
greatly  as  the  poignant. 

As  Mr.  Stephens  himself  announces : 

My  soul  hath  still  such  ecstasy 
That,  on  a  pulse,  I  sing  and  siny 
Of  Everything,  and  Anything! 

He  likes  to  sing  for  the  sheer  thrill  of 
singing.  More  than  that,  his  singing  is 
a  reaction  to  his  exuberance.  Children 
sing  thus  when  they  are  happy;  they 
dance,  too;  and  so,  one  feels,  does  Mr. 
Stephens,  at  least  mentally. 

This  kind  of  expression  of  "inner 
ecstasy"  undoubtedly  delights  and  sat- 
isfies the  performer.  But  that  it  stirs 
equal  delight  and  satisfaction  in  the  on- 
looker or  the  listener  is  another  matter, 
and  one  for  some  doubt. 

To  go  back  a  point:  it  perhaps  is  a 
good  symptom  for  Mr.  Stephens  to  be  as 
greatly  pleased  with  the  banal  as  with 
the  poignant — but  his  value  as  a  poet 
must  to  some  degree  depend  on  his  abil- 
ity to  li* '  banal  into  significance,  and 
to  ma"  -nant  unforgettable.  Al- 

though profound  regret,  one 

cannot  I  'iout  saying  that  Mr.      prc 

Stephen  rmplishe?  either  of     abo-. 

these  thi  cou? 

T-oolc  he. 

.1  In, 

Me 
Of  hi 

Of 

Hat  r 

Sw  ,, 

And  Dished 

CrOt 


THE  HILL  OF 
VISION 


BY 


JAMES  STEPHENS 

AUTHOR  OF  "INSURRECTIONS" 


gorfc 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1917 

AM  rightt  reitrvej 


By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  February, 
Reprinted  May,  1917- 


ttiitte 


2060769 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Everything  that  I  Can  Spy     .         .         .  I 

A  Prelude  and  a  Song   ....  3 
In  the  Poppy  Field 

The  Fulness  of  Time     .                            •  3O 

Light-o'-Love 31 

Nucleolus 32 

The  Brute      ....  -34 

Mount  Derision      .                   ...  3" 

The  Sootherer 37 

The  Spalpeen 44 

Danny  Murphy       .                            .         .  46 
The  Tree  of  the  Bird    .                            -47 

Peadar  6g  Goes  Courting      ...  49 

Nora  Criona  ...•••  54 

The  Rune       ....••  55 

Bessie  Bobtail 56 

The  Tinker's  Brat          .  -57 

Nothing  at  All        ...                  •  5§ 

Why  Tomas  Cam  Was  Grumpy    .         .  60 

Under  the  Bracken          ....  62 

The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me           .         .  64 

Shame                        .         .         .         .         •  65 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Said  the  Young -Young  Man  to  the  Old- 
Old  Man         .                          .         .       67 
Said  the  Old-Old   Man   to  the  Young- 
Young  Man 73 

Secrets 75 

Crooked-Heart 7$ 

Mac  Dhoul 77 

The  Merry  Policeman  .  .  .  ^  .  80 
Treason  ......  81 

The  Fairy  Boy 85 

What  the  Devil  Said      .         .         .         .      87 

The  Tree  of  Life 89 

Ora  Pro  Nobis 94 

Afterwards 95 

The  End  of  the  Road  ....  97 
Wind  and  Tree  .  .  .  .  .  99 

Eve 100 

The  Breath  of  Life  ....  104 
In  the  Cool  of  the  Evening  .  .  .108 

New  Pinions 109 

Psychometrist  .         .         .         .         .ill 

The  Winged  Tramp       .         .         .         .112 

Poles       . 113 

Chopin's  Funeral  March  .  .  .114 
The  Monkey's  Cousin  .  .  .  .116 
The  Lonely  God  .  .  .  .  .117 
Hail  and  Farewell 130 


Everything  that  I  can  spy 
Through  the  circle  of  my  eye, 
Everything  that  I  can  see 
Has  been  woven  out  of  me; 
I  have  sown   the  stars,   and  threw 
Clouds  of  morning  and  of  eve 
Up  into  the  vacant  blue; 
Everything  that  I  perceive, 
Sun  and  sea  and  mountain  high, 
All  are  moulded  by  my  eye: 
Closing  it,  what  shall  I  find? 
— Darkness,  and  a  little  wind. 


A  PRELUDE  AND  A  SONG 


THE  PRELUDE 

Song!  glad  indeed  I  am  that  we  have  met, 
Too  long,  my  sister,  you  have  stayed  from 

me; 

Almost  I  fancied  that  you  could  forget 
Those  binding  promises,  that  you  would  b0 
Under  the  slender  interlacing  boughs 
Waiting  for  me. 

I  came  and  looked  about  on  every  side 
But  where  you  hid  away  I  could  not  see; 
And  first  I  searched  among  the  meadows 

wide, 

And  up  the  hill,  and  under  every  tree, 
And  down  the  stream  to  see  if  you  were 

there 
Waiting  for  me. 

3 


4  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

But  when  I  did  not  find  you  in  the  mead, 
Or  by  the  stream,  or  under  any  tree, 
I  thought  you  had  forgotten  we  agreed, 
Not  long  ago,  that  you  would  surely  be 
Under  the  slender  interlacing  boughs 
Waiting  for  me. 

You  came  to  me  I  do  not  know  from  where: 
I  stood  and  saw  you  not,  I  turn  and  see: 
Have  you  sprung  to  me  from  the  sunny  air? 
Or  in  the  long  grass  did  you  curiously 
Watch  while  I  wandered,  laughing  as  you 

lay 
Waiting  for  me. 

And  you  have  brought  your  pipe!  let  us  be- 
gin. 

Against  your  skill  I  match  my  poetry: 
A  kiss  if  I  should  fail,  and  if  I  win 
A  kiss  the  same — tune  not  your  melody 
Too  high  at  first,  I  shall  not  keep  you  long, 
Waiting  for  me. 

O  little  wind  that  through  the  forest  ways 


A  PRELUDE  AND  A  SONG          5 

At  evening  and  at  morning  still  does  go, 
Or  from  the  hilltop  with  a  lordlier  praise 
Shouts  without  ceasing  to  the  meads  below! 
From  cave  or  lake  or  wood 
Come,  little  wind  and  share  our  solitude; 
Leave   those   sad  vagaries   that   make   us 

weep, 

Your  long-blown  pealing  trumpet  put  away, 
And  where  a  merry  holiday  we  keep 
Here  in  the  sunny  fields  come  dance  and 

leap 
And  sing  aloud  with  us  the  live-long  day. 

For  we  have  often  seen  you  in  the  corn 
Nodding  the  poppy  heads  in  dainty  play, 
Or  through  the  meadows  on  a  summer  morn 
Blowing  the  little  thistle  balls  away : 
And  one  day,  unobserved,  we  watched  you 

where 

You  stole  a  ribbon  from  a  maiden  slim 
And  threw  it  to  a  boy  who  stood  and 

prayed, 
Which,  e'er  he  kissed,  you  snatched  away 

from  him 


6  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

And  blew  it  back  again  unto  the  maid 
Who  was  his  only  hope  and  thought  and 

care; 
And  while  he  sighed  and  while  she  laughed 

you  took 

The  ribbon  up  and  soused  it  in  a  brook, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  lover  anywhere. 

And  yet  again  we  saw 

You  playing  with   the  milkmaids   in   the 

shaw, 

Where  standing  near  a  satyr  trained  his  eye 
If  haply  there  was  anything  to  see 
And  crept  up  to  you  with  a  mind  to  spy 
The  cause  of  such  exceeding  jollity: 
Then,  when  the  satyr  looked  too  curiously 
You  blew  his  own  rough  beard  and  shaggy 

hair, 

And  blinded  him  who  stared  so  greedily, 
Because  it  was  not  right  that  he  should  see 
The  milkmaid's  kirtle  that  you  meddled 

there. 

So  you  can  laugh  and  play; 

Come  then  and  join  our  merry  holiday: 


A  PRELUDE  AND  A  SONG  7 

Join  in  our  song  and  maybe  you  will  win 
Because  you  are  so  free  from  thought  or 

care, 

Nor  ever  question,  does  the  sinner  sin? 
Or,  who  has  seen?  or,  why  or  when  or 

where  ? 

No  longer  bide 

By  wood  or  hill  or  green  or  river's  side, 
But  your  quaint  careless  lute  bring  with  you 

here 

And  sing  to  us  and  we  will  sing  to  you, 
Until  we  find  who  has  the  finest  ear, 
And  who   the   sweetest  voice   and  gayest 

cheer, 
And  to  him  give  the  praise  that  is  his  due. 

O  nymphs !  if  ye  will  come  from  spring  or 

lake, 
Or  where   the  sedge  is  wavering   in  the 

stream, 

To  dance  with  us  and  with  us  to  partake 
A  careless  fellowship,  or  with  us  dream 
Stretched  idly  on  the  grass  to  watch  the 

gleam 


8  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Of  sunlight  through  the  leaves — we  wel- 
come true 

And  will  applaud  your  shy  romantic  theme, 
Your  delicate  wild  tales  and  music  new; 
And  fair  respectful  courtesy  extend  to  you. 

Round  the  trees  ye  danced  and  flew 
While  the  boughs  danced  down  to  see, 
And  the  sun  was  dancing  through 
Leafy  spaces  on  the  tree: 
The  daisies  danced,  the  meadow-sweet, 
All  the  swaying  grassy  blades 
Danced  behind  the  dancing  feet 
Of  the  merry  dancing  maids. 

But  ye  goat-footed  fellows  keep  away, 
Nor  through  the  bushes  strain  your  wily 

eyes, 

For  ye  would  love  to  spoil  our  holiday, 
And  fright  the  nymphs  away  with  sudden 

cries, 

And  whispers  lewd  and  vicious  enterprise: 
But  if  ye  promise  truly  to  be  good, 
Then  come  with  your  thin  reeds  and  im- 
provise 


A  PRELUDE  AND  A  SONG  9 

Your  antic  dances  practiced  in  the  wood, 
And  all  the  games  you  play  in  sunlit  soli- 
tude. 

Left  and  right  and  swing  around, 
Soar  and  dip  and  fall  for  glee, 
Happy  sky  and  bird  and  ground, 
Happy  wind  and  happy  tree : 
Happy  minions,  dancing  mad, 
Joy  is  guide  enough  for  you, 
Cure  the  world  of  good  and  bad, 
And  teach  us  innocence  anew. 

In  sunlit  solitude  wherein  ye  keep 
A  merriment  we  never  understood, 
Whose  only  privilege  is  when  we  weep — 
Away  the  word !  but  come  ye  happy  brood 
Of  nymphs  and  dancing  satyrs  who  have 

wooed 

So  often  and  so  often,  come  and  lie 
Beside  us  on  the  grass,  and  be  as  good 
As  your  wild  natures  let,  while  singing  high 
We  send  our  joyful  choruses  up  to  the  sky. 

Good  and  bad  and  right  and  wrong, 
Wave  the  silly  words  away: 


io  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

This  is  wisdom  to  be  strong, 
This  is  virtue  to  be  gay : 
Let  us  sing  and  dance  until 
We  shall  know  the  final  art, 
How  to  banish  good  and  ill 
With  the  laughter  of  the  heart. 

Now  sister,  blow  your  pipe  with  curved 

lips, 

And  all  ye  others  come  and  sit  around 
And  hearken  to  my  measure  as  it  trips 
Now   high,    now   low,   with   a   melodious 

sound : 

My  best  I  sing,  and  if  it  seem  to  you 
That  ye   have  heard  my  measures  sung 

before 

In  old  poetic  days,  give  me  my  due, 
For  those  who  sang  so  well  were  very  few 
Tho'  dead,  and  none  alive  can  soar 
Up  to  the  simple  rapture  of  my  lays : 
But  be  ye  silent  till  my  time  is  o'er, 
Then  if  ye  like  my  songs  give  me  my  praise. 


THE  SONG 

I  have  a  black,  black  mind! 

What  shall  I  do? 

If  I  could  fly  and  leave  it  all  behind, 

Scaling  the  blue, 

Over  the  trees  and  up  and  out  of  sight, 

And  wrong  and  right 

Naming  them  both  the  nonsense  that  they 

are! 

I'd  leave  them  far, 
Drop  them  behind  with  these  and  these  and 

these, 

The  tyrannies 

That  promised  to  be  blessings  and  are  woes, 
The  chattering  crows 
That  I  had  fancied  to  be  singing  birds, 
The  angry  words 
That  drowse  and  buzz  and  drone  and  never 

stay. 
Oh !  far  away  1 

IX 


12  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Over  the  pine  trees  and  the  mountain  top, 
Never  to  stop; 

Lifting  wide  wings,  to  fly  and  fly  and  fly 
Into  the  sky. 

If  I  had  wings  just  like  a  bird 
I  would  not  say  a  single  word, 
I'd  spread  my  wings  and  fly  away 
Beyond  the  reach  of  yesterday. 

If  I  could  swim  just  like  a  fish 
I'd  give  my  little  tail  a  swish, 
I'd  swim  ten  days  and  nights  and  then 
I  never  would  be  found  again. 

Or  if  I  were  a  comet  bright 
I'd  drop  in  secret  every  night 
Ten  million  miles,  and  no  one  would 
Know  where  I  kept  my  solitude. 

But  I  am  not  a  bird  or  fish 
Or  comet,  so  I  need  not  wish, 
And  need  not  try  to  get  away 
Beyond  the  reach  of  yesterday. 


A  PRELUDE  AND  A  SONG         13 

Damn  Yesterday !  and  this  and  that, 
And  these  and  those,  and  all  the  flat 
Dull  catalogue  of  weighty  things 
That  somehow  fastened  to  my  wings. 

Over  the  pine  trees  and  the  mountain  top! 
I  will  not  stop, 

I  lift  my  wings  and  fly  and  fly  and  fly 
Into  the  sky. 

No  more  of  woeful  Misery  I  sing! 
Let  her  go  moping  down  the  paved  way; 
While  to  the  sunny  fields,  and  everything 
That  laughs,  and  to  the  little  birds  that 

sing, 

I  pass  along  and  tune  my  happy  lay: 
O  sunny  sky ! 

0  meadows  that  the  happy  clouds  are  drift- 
ing by ! 

1  walk  and  play  beside  the  little  stream 
As  by  a  friend :  I  dance  in  solitude 
Among   the    trees,    or   lie    and   gaze    and 

dream 


i4  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Along  the  grass,  or  hearken  to  the  theme 
A  lark  discourses  to  her  tender  brood : 
O  sunny  sky! 

O   meadows   that   the  happy   clouds  are 
drifting  by! 

There  is  a  thrush  lives  snugly  in  a  wall, 
She  lets  me  come  and  peep  into  her  nest, 
She  lets  me  see  and  touch  the  speckled  ball 
Under  her  wing,  and  does  not  fear  at  all, 
Although  her  shy  companion  is  distressed: 
O  sunny  sky! 

O  meadows  that  the  happy  clouds  are  drift- 
ing by! 

Sing,  sing  again  ye  little  birds  of  joy! 
Call  out  from  tree  to  tree  and  tell  your  tale 
Of  happiness  that  knoweth  no  alloy; 
Altho'  your  mates  seem  timorous  and  coy 
If  ye  sing  high  enough  how  can  ye  fail? 
O  sunny  sky! 

O  meadows  that  the  happy  clouds  are  drift- 
ing by ! 

On  every  side,  as  far  as  I  can  see, 


A  PRELUDE  AND  A  SONG         15 

The  round  horizon — like  a  bosom's  swell, 
Seems  brooding  in  a  sweet  maternity 
Where  no  thing  may  be  hurt,  not  even  me, 
But  she  will  stoop  and  kiss  and  make  us 

well: 
O  sunny  sky! 

0  meadows  that  the  happy  clouds  are  drift- 
ing by ! 

1  am  the  brother  of  each  bird  and  tree 
And  everything  that  grows — your  children 

glad; 

Their  hearts  are  in  my  heart,  their  ecstasy! 
O  Mother  of  all  mothers,  comfort  me, 
Give  me  your  breast  for  I  am  very  sad : 
O  sunny  sky! 

0  meadows  that  the  happy  clouds  are  drift- 
ing by ! 

1  wandered  far  away  in  early  morn, 
When  summer  did  the  happy  trees  adorn; 
Leaving  behind  all  woe  and  discontent, 
All  sorrow  and  distress  and  angry  pain, 
And  did  not  say  to  any  where  I  went, 

Or  when,  or  if  I  would  return  again 
From  leafy  solitude. 


16  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

I  wandered  far  away  and  far  away, 
And  was  as  happy  as  a  person  may, 
Until  I  heard  the  birds  all  singing  plain 
Upon  their  several  trees,  a  joyous  band, 
Who  had  no  care  save  only  to  attain 
The  food  and  shelter  that  lay  every  hand 
In  leafy  solitude. 

I  wandered  far  away  and  did  not  turn: 
At  their  glad  songs  my  heart  began  to 

burn, 

And  joy  that  I  had  never  known  before, 
And  tears  that  had  no  meaning  I  could  say, 
Came  from  the  hymns  the  little  birds  did 

pour 

To  me  as  I  went  softly  on  my  way 
In  leafy  solitude. 

I  wandered  far  away  and  I  was  glad: 
I  knew  the  rapture  that  the  forest  had: 
And  every  bird  was  good  to  me  and  said 
A  kindly  word  before  I  passed  him  by, 
The  cheery  squirrel  sat  and  ate  his  bread 
And  did  not  fear  me  when  I  ventured  nigh 
His  leafy  solitude. 


A  PRELUDE  AND  A  SONG         17 

I  wandered  far  away — O,  all  alas! 

How  quickly  does  the  little  freedom  pass! 

Can  I  return  again  to  domicile? 

Or  leave  the  birds  each  on  his  several  tree? 

Or  wonder  did  I  weep  and  did  I  smile? 

Or  recollect  the  songs  they  sang  to  me 

In  leafy  solitude? 

O  birds,   my  brothers,   sing  to  me   once 

more! 

E'er  I  return  again  to  whence  I  came, 
Give  me  your  happiness,  your  joy,  your 

lore, 

Your  woodland  innocence  I  claim 
Because  ye  truly  are  my  brothers  dear: 
Sing  to  me  once  again  before  I  go  from 

here. 

In  woodland  paths  again  we  may  not  meet; 
Under  the  slender  interlacing  boughs, 
Where   all   day  long  the   sunbeams   flash 

and  fleet 

On  leaf  and  grass  and  wing, 
And  all  day  long  ye  sing 
And  hold  carouse : 


i8 

i 

Because  ye  truly  are  my  brothers  dear 
Sing  to  me  once  again  before  I  go  from 
here. 

I  from  your  happy  company  must  go  away 

To  whence  I  came; 

But  ye  through  all  the  quiet  summer  day 

Will  sing  the  same, 

And  fly  and  hold  carouse 

Under  the  slender  interlacing  boughs 

When  I  am  gone,  who  am  your  brother 

dear: 
Sing  to  me  once  again  before  I  go  from 

here. 

All  things  must  cease  at  last; 
Night  cometh  after  day 
And  day  is  past: 
All  things  must  end 
And  friend  from  loving  friend 
At  the  long  last  must  rise  and  go  away; 
And  from  the  slender  interlacing  boughs 
The  leaves  that  flutter  now  will  fail  and 
fall; 


A  PRELUDE  AND  A  SONG         19 

The  time  is  come  I  may  no  more  carouse, 
Farewell  to  ye,  farewell  unto  ye  all 
Ye  birds  who  truly  are  my  brothers  dear: 
Sing  to  me  once  again  before  I  go  from 
here. 

O  clouds  that  sail  afar,  almost  unseen ! 

0  unattainable !  to  you  alone 

1  lift  my  wings, 
To  you  I  lean, 

I  yearn  to  you  beyond  all  other  things; 
Desperate  I  am  for  you,  for  you  I  moan; 
I  struggle  up  to  you  and  always  fail, 
I  sink  and  fall,  I  fall  for  ever  down, 
Deep   down   where   you  are  not,   without 

avail 

Or  help  or  hope :  a  clod,  a  grinning  clown 
Whose  wry  mouth  laughs  in  fury  at  his 

thought ; 

A  discontent  without  a  word  to  say; 
A  hope  that  cannot  fasten  upon  aught; 
A  nothing  that  is  anything  it  may; 
A  moodiness,  a  hatred  and  a  love 


2o  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Mixed,  mixed  of  good  and  bad  that  can 

not  show; 

But  you  are  calm  at  morning  as  a  dove 
Is  calm  upon  her  nest,  and  in  the  glow 
Of  midday  you  are  bathed  round  with  joy, 
And  as  a  woman  looking  on  the  child 
Within  her  arms  asleep  has  no  annoy 
So,  with  contented  brows  and  bosom  mild, 
You  rest  upon  the  evening  and  its  gold, 
Its  tender  rose  and  pearl  and  green  and 

gray: 

O  peacefulness  that  never  has  been  told! 
O  far  away ! 

Over  the  pine  trees  and  the  mountain  top, 
Never  to  stop 

Lifting  wide  wings,  to  fly  and  fly  and  fly 
Into  the  sky. 

Weary  indeed  I  know  the  whole  world  is ; 
Then  do  not  sing  to  me  a  song  of  woe, 
But  tune  your  pipe  to  every  merry  bliss 
Ye  can  remember,  and  I  will  not  miss 
To  join  in  every  chorus  that  I  know: 
Give  me  the  very  rapture  of  your  song 


A  PRELUDE  AND  A  SONG         21 

Else  I  may  go  away  with  thoughts  that  do 
ye  wrong 

The    joyful    song    that    welcomes    in    the 

spring, 

The  tender  mating  song  so  bravely  shy, 
The  song  that  builds  the  nest,  the  merry 

ring 

When  the  long  wait  is  ended  and  ye  bring 
The  young  birds  out  and  teach  them  how 

to  fly: 

Sing  to  me  of  the  beechnuts  on  the  ground, 
And  of  the  first  wild  flight  at  early  dawn, 
And  of  the  store  of  berries  some  one  found 
And  hid  away  until  ye  gathered  round 
And  ate  them  while  he  shrieked  upon  the 

lawn: 

Sing  of  the  swinging  nest  upon  the  tree, 
And  of  your  mates  who  call  and  hide  away, 
And  of  the  sun  that  shines  exceedingly, 
And  of  the  leaves  that  dance,  and  all  the 

glee 
And  rapture  that  begins  at  break  of  day. 

O  birds,  O  birds,  sing  once  again  to  me ! 


22  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Sing  me  the  joy  ye  have  not  reached  to  yet; 
E'er  I  go  hence  give  me  your  ecstasy, 
E'er  I  go  hence,  e'er  far  away  I  flee 
Give  me  the  joy  which  I  may  not  forget: 
The  very  inner  rapture  of  your  song: 
Else  I  may  go  away  with  thoughts  that  do 
ye  wrong. 

O  follow,  follow,  follow! 

Blackbird,  thrush  and  swallow; 

The  air  is  soft,  the  sun  is  shining  through 

The  dancing  boughs; 

A  little  while  me  company  along 

And  I  will  go  with  you: 

Arouse,  arouse! 

Among  the  leaves  I  sing  my  pleasant  song. 

Blackbird,  thrush  and  swallow! 

Indeed  the  visits  that  I  pay  are  very  few, 

Then  come  to  me  as  I  have  come  to  you: 

O  follow,  follow,  follow ! 

Leave  for  a  little  time  your  nested  boughs 

And  me  accompany  along, 

Join  me  while  I  am  happy;  rouse,  O  rouse ! 

Among  the  leaves  I  sing  my  pleasant  song. 


A  PRELUDE  AND  A  SONG         23 

Sky,  sky, 

On  high, 

O  gentle  majesty! 

Come  all  ye  happy  birds  and  follow,  follow 

Under  the   slender  interlacing  boughs 

Blackbird,  thrush  and  swallow! 

No  longer  in  the  sunlight  sit  and  drowse 

But  me  accompany  along; 

No  longer  be  ye  mute ;  arouse,  arouse ! 

Among  the  leaves  I  sing  my  pleasant  song. 

Lift,  lift,  ye  happy  birds, 

Lift  song  and  wing, 

And  sing  and  fly, 

And  fly  again  and  sing 

Up  to  the  very  blueness  of  the  sky 

Your  happy  words. 

O  follow,  follow,  follow, 

Where  I  go  racing  through  the  shady  ways, 

Blackbird,  thrush  and  swallow, 

Shouting  aloud  our  ecstasy  of  praise: 

Under  the  slender  interlacing  boughs 

Me  company  along, 

The  sun  is  coming  with  us :  rouse,  O  rouse ! 

Among  the  leaves  I  sing  my  pleasant  song, 


24  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Reach  up  my  wings ! 

Now  broaden  into  space  and  carry  me 

Beyond  where  any  lark  that  sings 

Can  get: 

Into  the  utmost  sharp  tenuity, 

The  breathing-point,  the  start,  the  scarcely- 
stirred 

High  slenderness  where  never  any  bird 

Has  winged  to  yet ! 

The  moon  peace  and  the  star  peace  and 
the  peace 

Of  chilly  sunlight:  to  the  void  of  space, 

The  emptiness,  the  giant  curve,  the  great 

Wide-stretching  arms  wherein  the  gods  em- 
brace 

And  stars  are  born  and  suns:  where  ger- 
minate 

All  fruitful  seed,  where  life  and  death  are 
one, 

Where  all  things  that  are  not  their  times 
await; 

Where  all  things  that  have  been  again  are 
gone: 

Deep  Womb  of  Promise!  back  to  thee 
again 


A  PRELUDE  AND  A  SONG         25 

And  forth,  revivified,  all  living  things 

Do  come  and  go, 

Forever  wax  and  wane  into  and  from  thy 

garden; 

There  the  flower  springs, 
Therein  does  grow 

The  bud  of  hope,  the  miracle  to  come 
For  whose   dear   advent  we  are   striving 

dumb 

And  joyless:  Garden  of  Delight 
That  God  has  sowed  I 
In  thee  the  flower  of  flowers, 
The  apple  of  our  tree, 
The  banner  of  our  towers, 
The  recompense  for  every  misery, 
The  angel-man,  the  purity,  the  light 
Whom  we  are  working  to  has  his  abode : 
Until   out  back  and   forth,   our  life   and 

death 

And  life  again,  our  going  and  return 
Prepare  the  way:  until  our  latest  breath, 
Deep-drawn  and  agonized,   for  him  shall 

burn 
A  path:  for  him  prepare 


26  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Laughter  and  love  and  singing  everywhere ; 

A  morning  and  a  sunrise  and  a  day ! 

O,  far  away! 

Over  the  pine  trees  and  the  mountain  top 

Never  to  stop 

Lifting  wide  wings,  to  fly  and  fly  and  fly 

Into  the  sky. 

Song!  I  am  tired  to  death!  here  let  me  lie 
Where  we  have  paced  the  moving  trees 

along, 

Till  I  recover  from  my  ecstasy: 
Farewell  my  Song. 

Once   more   unto   your  pipe   I  lend   my 

rhyme 

Who  in  the  woods  did  pace  with  you  along; 
We  have  been  happy  for  a  little  time: 
Farewell  my  Song. 

Soon,   soon   return   or   else   my   world  ls: 
naught; 

Come  back  and  we  will  pace  the  woods 
along, 


A  PRELUDE  AND  A  SONG         27 

And  tell  unto  each  other  all  our  thought: 
Farewell  my  Song. 

And  when  again  you  do  come  back  to  me 
Under  the  sounding  trees  we'll  pace  along, 
While  to  your  pipe  I  raise  my  poetry: 
Farewell  my  Song. 


IN  THE  POPPY  FIELD 

Mad  Patsy  said,  he  said  to  me, 
That  every  morning  he  could  see 
An  angel  walking  on  the  sky ; 
Across  the  sunny  skies  of  morn 
He  threw  great  handfuls  far  and  nigh 
Of  poppy  seed  among  the  corn; 
And  then,  he  said,  the  angels  run 
To  see  the  poppies  in  the  sun. 

A  poppy  is  a  devil  weed, 
I  said  to  him — he  disagreed: 
He  said  the  devil  had  no  hand 
In  spreading  flowers  tall  and  fair 
Through  corn  and  rye  and  meadow  land, 
By  gurth  and  barrow  everywhere: 
The  devil  has  not  any  flower, 
But  only  money  in  his  power. 

And  then  he  stretched  out  in  the  sun 
And  rolled  upon  his  back  for  fun: 
28 


IN  THE  POPPY  FIELD  29 

He  kicked  his  legs  and  roared  for  joy 
Because  the  sun  was  shining  down, 
He  said  he  was  a  little  boy 
And  would  not  work  for  any  clown : 
He  ran  and  laughed  behind  a  bee, 
And  danced  for  very  ecstasy. 


THE  FULNESS  OF  TIME 

On  a  rusty  iron  throne 

Past  the  furthest  star  of  space 

I  saw  Satan  sit  alone, 

Old  and  haggard  was  his  face; 

For  his  work  was  done  and  he 

Rested  in  eternity. 

And  to  him  from  out  the  sun 
Came  his  father  and  his  friend 
Saying,  now  the  work  is  done 
Enmity  is  at  an  end: 
And  he  guided  Satan  to 
Paradises  that  he  knew. 

Gabriel  without  a  frown, 
Uriel  without  a  spear, 
Raphael  came  singing  down 
Welcoming  their  ancient  peer, 
And  they  seated  him  beside 
One  who  had  been  crucified. 
30 


LIGHT-O'-LOVE 

But  now,  said  she,  I  must  away, 
And  if  I  tend  another  fire 
In  some  man's  house  this  you  will  say- 
It  is  not  that  her  love  doth  tire : 
This  is  the  price  she  has  to  pay, 
For  bread  she  gets  no  other  way, 
Still  fainting   for  her  heart's  desire. 

And  so  she  went  out  from  the  door 
While  I  sat  quiet  in  my  chair: 
She  ran  back  once,  again — no  more; 
I  heard  a  footstep  on  the  stair, 
A  lifted  latch;  one  moment  fleet 
I  heard  the  noises  of  the  street, 
Then  silence  booming  everywhere. 


NUCLEOLUS 

I  looked  from  Mount  Derision  at 
Two  ivory  thrones  that  were  in  space, 
Whereon  a  man  and  woman  sat, 
The  very  parallels  of  grace, 
Not  lovelier  had  ever  been 
By  mortal  seen. 

Then  one  unto  the  other  said, 

Tell  me  the  secret  hidden  well 

Which  you  have  never  uttered, 

And  I  to  you  again  will  tell 

My  guarded  thought,  and  we  will  know 

Each  other  so. 

Then  he — When  those  who  pray  beside 

My  holy  altars  do  not  bear 

A  gift  to  me  I  turn  aside 

And  do  not  listen  to  the  prayer, 

But  whoso  brings  a  gift  will  see 

The  proof  of  me. 

32 


NUCLEOLUS  33 

And  she — When  on  a  festal  day 

The  youths  kneel  down  before  my  shrine 

I  think,  if  he  or  he  might  lay 

His  ruddy  cheek  to  mine 

And  comfort  my  sick  soul  I'd  lay 

My  crown  away. 


THE  BRUTE 

Still  she  said  No  and  No, 

And  begged  me  loose  her  hand : 

I  let  it  go, 

But  gripped  her  dress  instead: 

I  could  not  stand 

For  swimming  of  my  head. 

And  then  a  sudden  weakness  came  upon  me 

And  my  trembling  knees 

Went  shaking  to  the  ground. 

Ah  misery! 

She  would  not  listen, 

Stared  at  me  and  frowned. 

I  begged,  implored     .     .     . 
All  the  love  I'd  stored 
Came  gasping  in  a  net 
Of  tangled  pleading, 
Sigh  and  pant  and  fret, 
And  words  disjointed, 
Bitten  through  and  bleeding. 
34 


THE  BRUTE  35 

But  she  went  No  and  No  and  No  again, 

And  No  for  ever, 

Spite  of  all  endeavour; 

Until  like  wintry  rain 

That  pattering  word  whirled  on  my  mad- 
dened head 

And  froze  me  furious  while  she  thought 
me  dead. 

But  then  with  icy  lips  I  cursed  her  there, 

Eyes,  nose  and  teeth  and  hair; 

I  damned  her  body,  bones  and  blood — and 

then 
She  scuttled  homewards  like  a  frightened 

hen. 


MOUNT  DERISION 

Deep  within  the  spacious  round 
I  saw  a  man  and  woman  bound, 
Middle  to  middle  and  knee  to  knee, 
With  a  rusty  iron  chain, 
Which  when  one  or  the  other  would  flee 
Drew  them  close  together  again : 
This  was  on  the  Hill  of  Vision 
Which  the  gods  call  Mount  Derision. 

There  lay  upon  the  ground  a  key 
Which  the  couple  did  not  see 
Tho'  with  fury  they  were  bowed; 
And  they  struggled  in  the  sun, 
And  each  to  the  other  shouted  loud 
An  urgent  business  to  be  done 
If  the  fruitful  strife  might  cease 
And  they  work  together  in  peace. 

Thought  and  Feeling,  Brain  and  Heart, 
These,  which  cannot  work  apart, 
36 


MOUNT  DERISION  37 

Were  loving  sister  and  kindly  brother 
Long  ago  till  desire  and  strife 
Chained  the  twain  unto  each  other 
As  hated  husband  and  hateful  wife, 
Who  must  suffer  till  they  see 
Love  is  crowned  by  liberty. 


THE  SOOTHERER 

0  Little  Joy,  why  do  you  run  so  fast  ? 
Waving  behind  you  as  you  go  away 
Your  tiny  hand.     You  smiled  at  me  and 

cast 

A  silver  apple,  asking  me  to  play: 
But  when  I  ran  to  pick  the  apple  up 
You  ran  the  other  way. 

Bad  one !  I  will  refuse  to  eat  my  food, 

1  will  not  talk  or  laugh  or  say  a  prayer 
Unless  you  cease  from  running;  I  will  brood 
In  secret  if  you  leave  me :  I  declare 

I'll  drink  and  fight  and  go  to  the  bad 
And  curse  and  swear! 

Little  One !     White  One !     Shy  Little  Gay 

Sprite ! 

Do  not  turn  your  head  across  you  shoulder 
To  laugh  and  mock  at  me;  it  is  not  right 
To  laugh  at  me  for  I  am  older: 
38 


THE  SOOTHERER  39 

Throw  me  the  silver  apple  once  again 
You  little  scolder. 

I  love  you  very  dear,  indeed  I  do; 

I  never  saw  a  girl  like  you  before 

In  any  place.     You  are  more  sweetly  new 

Than  a  May  moon :  you  are  my  store, 

My  secret  and  my  treasure  and  the  pulse 

Of  my  heart's  core. 

Throw  me  the  silver  apple — I  will  run 
And  pick  it  up  and  give  it  you  again : 
Dear  Heart!  Sweet  Laughter! — throw  it 

then  for  fun 

And  not  for  me — if  you  will  but  remain, 
.     .     .     Nay  do  not  run;  I'll  stand  thus 

far  away 
And  not  complain. 

Come  just  a  little  nearer,  half  a  pace, 
One  little,  little  step:  my  eyes  are  bad, 
They  cannot  altogether  see  your  face 
At  this  great  distance — if  I  had 
Good  sight  I  would  not  mind  how  far  I 

stood, 
I  would  be  glad. 


40  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Never  before — or  only  one  or  two : 
I  did  not  really  like  them  half  so  well, 
Not  really  half  so  well  as  I  like  you, 
Throw  me  the  silver  apple  and  I'll  tell 
Their  names,  and  what  I  used  to  say  to 

them, 
— The  first  was  Nell. 

Throw  me  the  apple  and  I'll  tell  you  more; 
— She  had  a  pretty  face,  but  she  was  fat : 
We  clung  together  when  the  rain  would 

pour 

Under  a  tree  or  hedge,  and  often  sat 
Through    long,    still,    sunny   hours — Tell 

what  she  said? 
I'll  not  do  that. 

I  really  couldn't,  no,  it  would  be  wrong 
And  most  unfair,  I  will  not  say  a  word 
About  the  girl — (your  voice  is  like  the  song 
I  heard  this  morning  from  a  little  bird) 
.     .     .     I'll  whisper  then  if  you  come  close 

to  me, 
— You've  hardly  stirred. 


THE  SOOTHERER  41 

She  said  she  loved  me  better  than  her  life. 
— You  need  not  laugh,  she  said  so  anyway, 

And  meant  it  too,  and  longed  to  be  my 

wife: 

She  kissed  me  many  times  and  wept  to  stay 
Within  my  arms  and  did  not  ever  want 
To  go  away. 

But  she  was  fat,  I  will  admit  that's  true: 
And  so  I  hid  when  she  came  seeking  me. 
If  she  had  been  as  beautiful  as  you  .  .  . 
(You  are  as  slender  as  a  growing  tree, 
And  when  you  move  the  blood  goes  leaping 

through 
The  heart  of  me). 

The  other  girl?     Yes,  she  is  very  fair: 
Her  feet  are  lighter  than  the  clouds  on 

high, 
And  there   is  morn  and  noonday  in  her 

hair, 

And  mellow,  sunny  evenings  in  her  eye, 
And  all  day  long  she  sings  just  like  a  lark 
Up  in  the  sky. 


42  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

I  say  she  did — she  loved  me  very  well, 
And  I  loved  her  until,  Ah,  woe  is  me ! 
Until  today,  when  passing  through  the  dell 
I  met  yourself,  and  now  I  cannot  see 
Her  face  at  all,  or  any  face  but  yours 
In  memory. 

I  ought  to  be  ashamed?  well  ament  I? 
But  that's  no  comfort  when  I'm  in  a  trap : 
I  tell  you  I  shall  sit  down  here  and  die 
Unless  you  stay — you  do  not  care  a  rap — 
Ah,  Little  Sweetheart,  do  not  run  away, 
.     .     .     Have  pity  on  a  chap. 

You'll  go — then  listen,  you  are  just  a  pig, 
A  little  wrinkled  pig  out  of  a  sty; 
Your  legs  are  crooked  and  your  nose  is  big, 
You've  got  no  calves,  you  have  a  silly  eye, 
I  don't  know  why  I  stopped  to  talk  to  you, 
I  hope  you'll  die. 

Now  cry,  go  on,  mew  like  a  little  cat, 
And  rub  your  eyes  and  stamp  and  tear  your 

wig; 
I  see  your  ankles !  listen,  they  are  fat 


THE  SOOTHERER  43 

And  so's  your  head,  you're  angled  like  a 

twig, 
Your  back's   all  baggy  and  your  clothes 

don't  fit 
And  your  feet  are  big! 

She's  gone,  begor,  she  legged  it  like  a  hare ! 
You'd  think  I  had  the  itch,  or  else  a  face 
Like  a  blue  monkey — keeps  me  standing 

there, 
Not  good  enough  to  touch  her     .     .      ! 

Back  I'll  race 
And  make  it  up  with  Breed,  that's  what 

I'll  do, 

.     .     .      There  is  a  flower  that  bloometh, 
Tra  la  la  la  laddy  la     .     .     . 


THE  SPALPEEN 

Looking  on  the  rounded  sky 
From  the  Hill  of  Vision,  I 
Saw  him  striding  here  and  there 
Sowing  seeds  upon  the  air, 
And  he  told  the  name  of  these, 
Days  and  Years  and  Centuries. 

Then  a  seed  to  me  he  threw 
Saying,  'tis  a  gift  for  you, 
The  best  of  all  the  seeds  that  be 
This  is  the  seed  of  mystery, 
And  its  name  is  Death  but  no 
Other  tree  can  blossom  so. 

It  will  top  the  clouds  and  run 
Branches  up  into  the  sun: 
Fruit  and  leaf  and  branch  and  stem 
Will  grow  far  too  high  for  them, 
The  Immortals,  who  will  cry 
We  are  tired  and  cannot  die. 
44 


THE  SPALPEEN  45 

"Fear  of  the  Gods"  will  be  its  name, 
It  will  cover  up  their  fame; 
And  beneath  its  shade  will  go 
Mighty  mortals  to  and  fro 
Who  will  die  and  live  and  be 
Eager  through  eternity. 


DANNY  MURPHY 

He  was  as  old  as  old  could  be, 
His  little  eye  could  scarcely  see 
His  mouth  was  sunken  in  between, 
His  nose  and  chin,  and  he  was  lean 
And  twisted  up  and  withered  quite, 
So  that  he  could  not  walk  aright. 

His  pipe  was  always  going  out, 
And  then  he'd  have  to  search  about 
In  all  his  pockets,  and  he'd  mow 
— O,  deary  me !  and,  musha  now ! 
And  then  he'd  light  his  pipe,  and  then 
He'd  let  it  go  clean  out  again. 

He  could  not  dance  or  jump  or  run, 
Or  ever  have  a  bit  of  fun 
Like  me  and  Susan,  when  we  shout 
And  jump  and  throw  ourselves  about: 
But  when  he  laughed  then  you  could  see 
He  was  as  young  as  young  could  be. 
46 


THE  TREE  OF  THE  BIRD 

I  sat  beneath  a  tree  in  a  wide  park, 
There  was  a  lark,  a  bard  of  ecstasy, 
Who  sang  among  the  leaves  of  his  beloved : 
— "Thou  art  most  fair,  O,  my  beloved,'' 

said  he, 

"None  can  with  thee  compare, 
Thy  flight  is  with  the  stars  and  with  the 

wind, 

And  thou  art  kind, 
O,  my  most  well-beloved" 
— Such  was  his  minstrelsy. 

The  mellow  evening  sun  trod  to  a  hill 

Far  off  and  blue, 

But  I  was  too  enraptured  with  the  skill 

Of  that  young  songster,  and  the  still 

Slow  rustling  of  the  boughs 

To  heed  how  far  the  sun  had  stepped 

Unto  his  western  house, 

Whereto 

47 


48  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

At  evening  he  must  turn  again  his  bright- 
ness to  renew. 

There  came  to  me  a  languor  sad, 
The  sacred  peace  which  Adam  had 
When  in  the  morning  after  he 
Had  been  expelled  to  misery 
He  wakened  with  his  bride, 
And  cried  his  thanks  and  praise  to  God 
For  trees  and  dew  and  birds  that  flew, 
For  sun  and  breeze  and  cloudy  sails 
Which  he  aforetime  knew  and  loved  in 
Eden's  vales. 

He  did  a  moment  furthermore 

Outpour  his  many  patterned  song, 

Down  to  the  ground  and  up  to  the  sky, 

About,  around,  an  ecstasy, 

A  sheer  and  sweet  swift  rush  along; 

It  failed  and  ceased,  and  then  he  threw 

His  pinions  wide, 

Away  he  flew, 

Because  he  could  no  longer  bide 

Away  from  her  he  glorified. 


THE  TREE  OF  THE  BIRD         49 

A  little  wind  from  out  of  space 

Breathed  softly  on  my  face, 

The  gray  and  peaceful  evening  stole 

Around  the  tree,  till  branch  and  bole 

Were  lost,  and  there  remained  to  me 

Nothing  at  all  to  hear  or  see 

But  this — 

A  bliss,  a  happiness, 

A  song  that  came  like  a  caress, 

A  memory,  no  more — which  you, 

My  friend,  are  very  welcome  to. 


PEADAR  OG  GOES 
COURTING 

Now  I  am  nicely  dressed  I'll  go 
Down  to  where  the  roses  blow, 
I'll  pluck  a  fair  and  fragrant  one 
And  make  my  mother  pin  it  on: 
Now  she's  laughing,  so  am  I — 
O,  the  blueness  of  the  sky! 

Down  the  street,  turn  to  the  right, 
Round  the  corner  out  of  sight, 
Pass  the  church  and  out  of  town — 
Dust  does  show  on  boots  of  brown, 
I'd  better  brush  them  while  I  can ; 
Step  out,  Peadar,  be  a  man! 

Here's  a  field  and  there's  a  stile, 
Shall  I  jump  it?  wait  a  while, 
Scale  it  gently,  stretch  my  foot 
Across  the  mud  in  that  big  rut 
so 


PEADAR  OG  GOES  COURTING     51 

And  I'm  still  clean — faith,  I'm  not! 
Get  some  grass  and  rub  the  spot.  • 


Dodge  those  nettles,  here  the  stream 
Bubbles  onward  with  a  gleam 
Steely  white,  and  black,  and  gray, 
Bending  rushes  on  its  way — 
What's  that  moving?     It's  a  rat 
Washing  his  whiskers,  isn't  he  fat? 

Here  the  cow  with  the  crumpledy  horn 
Whisks  her  tail  and  looks  forlorn, 
She  wants  a  milkmaid  bad  I  guess 
How  her  udders  swell  and  press 
Against  her  legs — and  here's  some  sheep, 
And  there's  the  shepherd  fast  asleep. 

This  is  a  sad  and  lonely  field, 
Thistles  are  all  that  it  can  yield, 
I'll  cross  it  quick,  nor  look  behind, 
There's  nothing  in  it  but  the  wind: 
And  if  those  bandy-legged  trees 
Could  only  talk  they'd  curse  or  sneeze. 


52  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

A  sour,  unhappy,  sloppy  place- 
That  boot's  loose !  I'll  tie  the  lace 
So,  and  jump  this  little  ditch, 
.     .     .     Her  father's  really  'very  rich : 
He'll  be  angry — there's  a  crow, 
Solemn  blackhead !  off  you  go. 

There  a  big  gray,  ancient  ass 

Is  snoozing  quiet  in  the  grass, 

He  hears  me  coming,  starts  to  rise, 

And  wags  his  big  ears  at  the  flies. 

.     .     .     Whafll  I  say   when — there's   a 

frog, 
Go  it,  long-legs,  jig,  jig-jog. 

He'll  be  angry,  say — "Pooh,  pooh, 
Boy,  you  know  not  what  you  do." 
Shakespeare  rot  and  good  advice, 
Fat  old  duffer — those  field  mice 
Have  a  good  time  playing  round 
Through  the  corn  and  underground. 

But  her  mother  is  friends  with  mine, 
She  always  asks  us  out  to  dine, 


PEADAR  OG  GOES  COURTING    53 

And  dear  Nora,  curly  head, 

Loves  me;  so  at  least  she  said. 

.     .     .     Damn  that  ass's  hee-hee-haw — 

Was  that  a  rabbit's  tail  I  saw? 

This  is  the  house,  Lord,  I'm  afraid! 

A  man  does  suffer  for  a  maid, 

.     .     .     How  will  I  start? — the  graining's 

new 

On  the  door — O,  pluck  up,  do. 
Don't  stand  shivering  there  like  that 
.     .     .     The  knocker's  funny — rat-tat-tat. 


NORA  CRIONA 

I  have  looked  him  round  and  looked  him 

through, 

Know  everything  that  he  will  do 
In  such  a  case,  and  such  a  case, 
And  when  a  frown  comes  on  his  face 
I  dream  of  it,  and  when  a  smile 
I  trace  its  sources  in  a  while. 

He  cannot  do  a  thing  but  I 
Peep  and  find  the  reason  why, 
Because  I  love  him,  and  I  seek, 
Every  evening  in  the  week, 
To  peep  behind  his  frowning  eye 
With  little  query,  little  pry, 
And  make  him  if  a  woman  can 
Happier  than  any  man. 

Yesterday  he  gripped  her  tight 
And  cut  her  throat — and  serve  her  right! 
54 


THE  RUNE 

The  sun  and  the  star, 
The  moon  and  the  sea, 
As  they  wandered  afar 
Sent  a  message  to  me. 

For  our  friend,  lovingly 
We  have  fashioned  a  moral, 
When  there's  room  to  agree 
There  is  no  room  to  quarrel. 

And,  therefore,  we  now 
Send  this  thought  to  the  friend 
Whom  we  love,  showing  how 
Every  quarrel  will  end. 

To  be  far  brings  you  near, 
But  too  near  is  too  far; 
Can  you  love  without  fear 
When  the  door's  on  the  jar? 
55 


BESSIE  BOBTAIL 

As  down  the  street  she  wambled  slow, 

She  had  not  got  a  place  to  go: 

She  had  not  got  a  place  to  fall 

And  rest  herself — no  place  at  all. 

She  stumped  along  and  wagged  her  pate 

And  said  a  thing  was  desperate. 

Her  face  was  screwed  and  wrinkled  tight 
Just  like  a  nut — and,  left  and  right, 
On  either  side  she  wagged  her  head 
And  said  a  thing,  and  what  she  said 
Was  desperate  as  any  word 
That  ever  yet  a  person  heard. 

I  walked  behind  her  for  a  while 

And  watched  the  people  nudge  and  smile: 

But  ever  as  she  went  she  said, 

As  left  and  right  she  swung  her  head, 

— "O,    God  He  knows,"   and  "God  He 

knows" 

And,  surely  God  Almighty  knows. 
56  ' 


THE  TINKER'S  BRAT 

I  saw  a  beggar  woman  bare 

Her  bosom  to  the  winter  air; 

And  into  the  tender  nest 

Of  her  famished  mother-breast 

She  laid  her  child, 

And  him  beguiled, 

With  crooning  song  into  his  rest. 

With  crooning  song  and  tender  word, 

About  a  little  singing  bird, 

Who  spread  her  wings  about  her  brood, 

And  tore  her  bosom  up  for  food, 

And  sang  the  while, 

Them  to  beguile, 

All  in  the  forest's  solitude. 

And  hearing  this  I  could  not  see 
That  she  was  clad  in  misery; 
For  in  her  heart  there  was  a  glow 
Warmed  her  bare  feet  in  the  snow: 
In  her  heart  was  hid  a  sun 
Would  warm  the  world  for  every  one. 
57 


NOTHING  AT  ALL 

There  was  a  man  was  very  old: 

He  sat  beside  a  little  fire, 

And  watched  the  flame  begin  to  tire. 

He  held  his  hands  out  to  the  heat, 
And  in  his  voice  was  half  a  scold, 
Informed  Creation  he  was  cold. 

And  very,  very  feeble,  too: 

He  could  not  lift  up  from  his  seat 

To  reach  the  fuel  at  his  feet. 

"Perhaps,"  said  he,  "God  does  not  know 
That  I  am  nearly  frozen  through; 
He  might  not  like  it  if  He  knew. 

"For  an  old  man  cannot  stretch, 
When  his  blood's  too  weak  to  flow, 
Frozen  sitting  in  the  snow." 
58 


NOTHING  AT  ALL  59 


Poor  old  chattering,  grumbling  wight! 
God  will  hardly  come  to  fetch 
Wood  for  such  an  ancient  wretch. 

But  He  will  send  you  rain  more  cold, 
To  quench  that  little  flickering  light, 
Just  like  this,  and  freeze  you  quite: 
.     .     .     Men  must  die  when  they  are  old. 


WHY  TOMAS  CAM  WAS 
GRUMPY 

If  I  were  rich  what  would  I  do? 

I'd  leave  the  horse  just  ready  to  shoe, 

I'd  leave  the  pail  beside  the  cow, 

I'd  leave  the  furrow  beneath  the  plough, 

I'd  leave  the  ducks  tho'  they  should  quack, 

"Our  eggs   will   be   stolen  before  you're 

back"; 

I'd  buy  a  diamond  brooch,  a  ring, 
A  golden  chain  which  I  would  fling 
Around  her  neck     .     .     .     Ah,  what  an 

itch, 
If  I  were  rich! 

What  would  I  do  if  I  were  wise? 
I  would  not  debate  about  the  skies, 
Nor  would  I  try  a  book  to  write, 
Or  find  the  wrong  in  the  tangled  right, 
I  would  not  debate  with  learned  men 
Of  how,  and  what,  and  why,  and  when; 
60 


TOMAS  CAM  61 

I'd  train  my  tongue  to  a  linnet's  song, 

I'd    learn    the    words    that    couldn't    go 

wrong — 
And  then  I'd  say     .     .     .     And  win  the 

prize, 
If  I  were  wise! 

But  I'm  not  that  nor  t'other,  I  bow 
My  back  to  the  work  that's  waiting  now. 
I'll  shoe  the  horse  that's  standing  ready, 
I'll  milk  the  cow  if  she'll  be  steady, 
I'll  follow  the  plough  that  turns  the  loam, 
I'll  watch  the  ducks  don't  lay  from  home. 
— And  I'll  curse,  and  curse,  and  curse  again 
Till  the  devil  joins  in  with  his  big  amen, 
And  none  but  he  and  I  will  wot 
When  the  heart  within  me  starts  to  rot, 
To  fester  and  churn  its  ugly  brew — 
.     .     .     Where's  my  spade?     I've  work 
to  do. 


UNDER  THE  BRACKEN 

A  body  lay  upon  the  hill 
And  over  it  the   bracken  swung; 
The  which  had  housed  many  an  ill 
Of  hand  and  heart  and  tongue : 
It  was  so  foul  the  angels  who 
Fit  the  dead  for  living  flew 
From  where  the  corpse  was  flung. 

Then  all  the  ills  that  had  been  sted 
In  the  heart  and  in  the  head, 
Every  sin  and  shame  he  knew 
When  he  gloried  in  the  sun 
Rose  from  hell  again  and  flew, 
Filled  with  indignation, 
And  did  what  the  angel  crew 
Could  not  bring  themselves  to  do. 

They  cleaned  him  more  white  than  snow, 
They  purged  him  of  everv  stain, 
62 


UNDER  THE  BRACKEN  63 

Fouling  their  own  bodies  so 
They  might  not  be  clean  again: 
But  when  the  living  from  the  dead 
Arose  again  the  angels  said, 
Behold,  our  work  was  not  in  vain. 


THE  GIRL  I  LEFT  BEHIND 
ME 

She  watched  the  blaze, 

And  so  I  said  the  thing  I'd  come  to  say, 

Pondered  for  days. 

Her  lips  moved  slow, 

And  then  a  widened  eye  she  flashed  upon 

me 
Sudden  as  a  blow. 

She  turned  again, 

Her  hands  clasping  her  knees  and  did  not 

speak : 
She  did  not  deign. 

And  I,  poor  gnome! 
A  chided  cur  crawls  to  a  hole  to  hide : 
.     .     .     I  toddled  home. 
64 


SHAME 

I  was  ashamed,  I  dared  not  lift  my  eyes, 
I  could  not  bear  to  look  upon  the  skies; 
What  I  had  done !  sure,  everybody  knew ! 
From  everywhere  hands  pointed  where  I 

stood, 
And  scornful  eyes  were  piercing  through 

and  through 
The  moody  armor  of  my  hardihood. 

I  heard  their  voices  too,  each  word  an  asp 
That  buzz'd  and  stung  me  sudden  as  a 

flame: 

And  all  the  world  was  jolting  on  my  name, 
And  now  and  then  there  came  a  wicked 

rasp 
Of  laughter,  jarring  me  to  deeper  shame. 

And  then  I  looked,  but  there  was  no  one 

nigh, 
No  eyes  that  stabbed  like  swords  or  glinted 

sly, 

65 


66  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

No  laughter  creaking  on  the  silent  air: 
And  then  I  found  that  I  was  all  alone 
Facing  my  soul,  and  next  I  was  aware 
That  this  mad  mockery  was  all  my  own. 


SAID  THE  YOUNG-YOUNG 
MAN  TO  THE  OLD-OLD 

MAN 


I  wish  I  had  not  grown  to  man's  estate, 
I  wish  I  was  a  silly  urchin  still, 
With  bounding  pulses  and  a  heart  elate 
To  meet  whatever  came  of  good  or  ill. 

Of  good  or  ill!  not  knowing  what  was 

good, 

But  groping  to  a  better  than  I  knew, 
And  guessing  deeper  than  I  understood, 
And  hoping  truths  that  never  could  be  true. 

Of  good  or  ill!  when,  so  it  often  seems, 
There  is  no  good  at  all  but  only  ill. 
Alas,  the  sunny  summer-time  of  dreams, 
The  dragons  I  had  nerved  my  hand  to  kill, 
The  maidens  I  should  rescue,  and  the  queen 
Whose  champion  long  ago  I  would  have 
been. 

67 


68  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

II 

I  wish  I  had  a  hand  as  big  as  God's 
To  smash  creation  into  smithereens, 
Till  nothing  but  a  heap  of  stones  or  clods 
Remained  of  its  ironic  might-have-beens. 

The  weary  ages  that  have  drifted  by, 
The  ages  that  have  still  to  shirk  and  slink, 
Have  fashioned  us  the  image  of  an  eye, 
And  brains  that  weary  when  they  try  to 
think. 

For  all  is  as  it  was,  and  all  will  be 

Experimental  still  in  ages  hence: 

Poor  eyes  that  ache  because  they  cannot 

see! 

Poor  minds  that  strive  without  a  recom- 
pense ! 

And  after  all  the  climbing  climb  we  still 
To  find  o'er  every  height  a  steeper  hill. 


SAID  THE  YOUNG-YOUNG  MAN  69 
III 

I  wished  I  was  a  saint  not  long  ago, 
But  now  I  do  not  wish  it  any  more : 
Who'd  be  the  ebb  if  he  might  be  the  flow 
That  bursts  in  thunder  on  the  solid  shore. 

I'd  be  a  wave  impetuous  as  life 

And  not   the   skulking   backwash   that   is 

death. 

I  would  not  lose  a  pang  of  heated  strife 
For  all  the  comfort  that  the  Preacher  saith. 

Straight    beds    of   that    oblivion!    sodden 

sleep, 

That  dreams  renunciations  deeper  still! 
Renouncing  only  what  they  cannot  keep 
For  trembling  fingers  and  for  flaccid  will. 

And  yet  the  dreams  of  long  ago  had  got 
A  colour  my  awakening  forgot. 


70  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

IV 

I  love  rich  venison  and  mellow  wine: 
To  sprawl  upon  a  meadow  in  the  sun : 
To  swing  a  cane,  and  kiss  a  girl,  and  dine, 
To  break  and  mend  and   fashion   things 
for  fun. 

I  love  to  look  at  women  as  they  pass : 
I  love  to  watch  a  valiant  horse  go  by: 
To  hear  a  lark  sing  from  the  seedy  grass: 
To  praise  a  friend  and  mock  an  enemy. 

The  glory  of  the  sunlight  and  the  day, 
The  loveliness  when  evening  closes  slow, 
The  clouds  that  droop  away  and  far  away 
Just  faintly  tinged  by  day's  last  afterglow. 

And  yet  I  fear  lest  misery  and  grief 
Like  misers  hide  a  joy  beyond  belief. 


SAID  THE  YOUNG-YOUNG  MAN   71 

V 

Perhaps  you  hearken  to  a  wiser  muse ! 
The  undersong  of  life  rolling  along 
So  deep,  so  scarcely  audible,  we  lose 
The  tremble  of  that  densely  weighted  song : 

We  who  are  toned  to  lighter  melodies, 
The  bee  that  murmurs  in  the  scented  grass, 
The    sharper    sweetness    from    the    nested 

trees, 
The  winds  that  laugh  and  weep  before  they 

pass. 

We  well  may  miss  that  solemn  monotone. 
But  ye  can  miss  the  nightingale  in  June ! 
For  music  that  is  cousin  to  a  groan, 
For  agonies  that  writhe  upon  a  tune  I 

Drear  happiness !  the  linnet  in  the  tree 
Astounds  your  rhythms  like  a  mockery. 


72  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

VI 

I  wish  that  I  were  dead:  I  wish  indeed 
That  I  were  dead  and  buried  in  the  ground, 
Deep  down  below  the  deepest  rooted  weed 
And  nothing  left,  not  even  one  small  mound 

To  show  where  I  was  lying.     If  I  lay 
Long-stretched  and  silent  in  that  blank  re- 
treat, 

I  would  not  hear  a  sound  of  grave  or  gay, 
Or  even  those  shy,  softly-stepping  feet 
That  come  and  stand  a  while  and  go  away. 

I  would  be  so  alone,  so  quite  alone, 
And  heedless  as  the  dead  can  only  be, 
Not  minding  what   was   hidden   or  was 

known, 
Or  all  the  gropings  of  philosophy. 

If  I  were  dead — but  still  I  could  not  die 
While  there  were  winds  and  clouds  upon 
the  sky. 


SAID  THE  OLD-OLD  MAN         73 
VII 

Said  the  Old-Old  Man  to  the  Young-Young 
Man 


Listen  well  to  what  I  say, 
These  are  the  names  of  demons  gray. 
Smiling-Lip  whose  teeth  are  strong. 
Friendly-Hand,  whose  claws  are  long. 
Passionate-Eye,  whose  glare  is  fire. 
Kiss-of-Joy,  who  lives  in  mire. 
These  are  the  names  of  demon  foes 
Who  taught  the  Devil  all  he  knows. 

The  lips  of  desire  smile  to  hide 

The  teeth  of  fierce  oppression  inside. 

The  hand  that  gives  and  gives  alway 

Only  waits  a  time  to  slay. 

The  eyes  that  woo  with  a  fiery  stare 

Are  the  eyes  that  roam  anywhere. 

The  kiss  that  is  quick,  and  mad,  and  sweet 

Rolls  the  gutters  along  the  street. 


74  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Beware  of  lips  when  smiling  bland, 
Beware  the  gifts  in  a  friendly  hand, 
Beware  the  passionate  eyes  that  woo, 
The  sweetest  kiss  is  the  kiss  to  rue: 
A  laugh  is  a  lie  and  the  truth  a  blow, 
— But  you  won't  heed  me  whether  or  no. 


SECRETS 

When  I  was  young  I  used  to  think, 
That  every  eye  peered  through   a  chink, 
And  every  man  was  hid  behind 
His  own  thick  self  where  none  could  find. 

That  every  woman  in  the  street, 
Looking  fair  and  smiling  sweet, 
Was  maybe  hiding  thoughts  that  were 
Not  quite  so  sweet,  nor  quite  so  fair 
As  her  kind  smile  and  blossom  face; 
She  hived  in  some  forgotten  place 
Within  herself  and  could  not  bear 
That  any  man  should  see  her  there. 

And  though  I'm  older  still  I  see 
In  every  face  a  mystery. 


CROOKED-HEART 

I  loosed  an  arrow  from  my  bow 
Down  into  the  world  below; 
Thinking  "This  will  surely  dart, 
Guided  by  my  guiding  fate, 
Into  the  malignant  heart 
Of  the  person  whom  I  hate." 

So  by  hatred  feathered  well 

Swift  the  flashing  arrow  fell : 

And  I  watched  it  from  above 

Disappear 

Cleaving  sheer 

Through  the  only  heart  I  love. 

Such  the  guard  my  angels  keep  I 
But  my  foe  is  guarded  well : 
I  have  slain  my  love  and  weep 
Tears  of  blood,  while  he,  asleep, 
Does  not  know  an  arrow  fell ! 
76 


MAC  DHOUL 

I  saw  them  all, 

I  could  have  laughed  out  loud 

To  see  them  at  their  capers; 

That  serious,  solemn-footed,  weighty  crowd 

Of  angels,  or  say  resurrected  drapers: 

Each  with  a  thin  flame  swinging  round  his 

head, 

With  lilting  wings  and  eyes  of  holy  dread, 
And  curving  ears  strained  for  the  great 

foot-fall, 

And  not  a  thought  of  sin —     .     .     . 
I  don't  know  how  I  kept  the  laughter  in. 

For  I  was  there, 

Unknown,  unguessed  at,  snug, 

In  a  rose  tree's  branchy  spurt, 

With  two  weeks'  whisker  blackening  lug 

to  lug, 
With    tattered    breeks    and   only    half    a 

shirt. 

77 


78  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Swollen  fit  to  burst  with  laughter  at  the 

sight 
Of  those  dull   angels   drooping  left   and 

right 

Along  the  towering  throne,  each  in  a  scare 
To  hear  His  foot  advance 
Huge  from  the  cloud  behind,  all  in  a  trance. 

And  suddenly, 

As  silent  as  a  ghost, 

I  jumped  out  from  the  bush, 

Went  scooting  through  the  glaring,  nerve- 
less host 

All  petrified,  all  gaping  in  a  hush : 

^Came  to  the  throne  and,  nimble  as  a  rat, 

Hopped  up  it,  squatted  close,  and  there  I 
sat, 

Squirming  with  laughter  till  I  had  to  cry, 

To  see  Him  standing  there 

Frozen  with  all  His  angels  in  a  stare! 
He  raised  His  hand, 
His  hand!  'twas  like  a  sky! 
Gripped  me  in  half  a  finger, 


MAC  DHOUL  79 

Flipped  me  round  and  sent  me  spinning 

high 
Through  the  hot  planets:  faith,  I  didn't 

linger 

To  scratch  myself,  and  then  adown  I  sped 
Scraping  old  moons  and  twisting  heels  and 

head 
A  chuckle  in  the  void  till     .     .     .     here  I 

stand 

As  naked  as  a  brick, 
I'll  sing  the  Peeler  and  the  Goat  in  half 

a  tick. 


THE  MERRY  POLICEMAN 

I  was  appointed  guardian  by 
The  Power  that  frowns  along  the  sky, 
To  watch  the  tree  and  see  that  none 
Plucked  of  the  fruit  that  grew  thereon. 

There  was  a  robber  in  the  tree, 
Who  climbed  as  high  as  ever  he 
Was  able,  at  the  top  he  knew 
The  apple  of  all  apples  grew. 

The  night  was  dark,  the  branch  was  thin, 
In  every  wind  he  heard  the  din 
Of  angels  calling — "Guardian,  see 
That  no  one  climbs  upon  the  tree." 

And  when  he  saw  me  standing  there 
He  shook  with  terror  and  despair, 
But  I  said  to  him — "Be  at  rest, 
The  best  to  him  who  wants  the  best." 

So  I  was  sacked,  but  I  have  got 
A  job  in  hell  to  keep  me  hot. 
80 


TREASON 

He  ran  unto  us  in  the  little  field, 

Out  from  the  bordering  trees  sprang  grim- 
acing : 

He  swung  his  hand 

To  the  darkened  land, 

And  when  he  tried  to  speak  to  us  he 
squealed; 

His  voice  curled  from  him  like  a  fright- 
ened thing 

That  had  no  sense,  he  fell  down  on  the 
ground 

Laughing  and  weeping,  then,  uncouthly 
grim, 

He  told  a  tale  to  us  who  stood  around; 

And  when  his  tale  was  told  we  fled  from 
him. 

"O,  we  are  lost,"  said  he,  "there  is  no  hope, 
I  say  there  is  not  any  hope  at  all; 
We  are  betrayed, 

81 


82  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

The  prayers  we  prayed, 

Our  very  tears,  our  love,  our  hands  that 

grope 
Tremblingly  skyward,  and  our  knees  that 

fall 
Down  to  adore  them,  all  our  hopes  and 

fears, 

Our  tremblings  and  our  raptures  are  a  joke, 
Poor  follies  for  the  laughter  and  the  sneers 
Of  those  black  demons  and  the  shining  folk. 

"I  saw  the  radiant  gods,  a  multitude 

Who  flew  down  quickly  to  a  place  I  know; 

A  meadow  fair, 

I  will  not  tell  you  where: 

And  from  behind  the  moon  a  blacker  brood 

Drove  steeply  down   to   where   the   gods 

below, 

(A  white  assembly;  circling  vast  around,) 
Stood  rank  on  rank  in  orderly  array, 
And  in  the  center  on  a  higher  ground 
Was  one  more  beautiful  than  tongue  can 

say. 


TREASON  83 

"I  cried — alas,  the  good  ones  do  not  see 
These   demons   come   to   take   them   in   a 

snare — 
My  cudgel  I 
Heaved  shoulder-high 
And  ran  to  aid  them,  ran  so  furiously 
My  heart  nigh  broke,   in  running  to  get 

there, 

Nigh  broke  I  say  in  pity  as  I  ran: 
My  heart  1  ah,  gods,  what  laughter  ye  had 

made 

Of  this  poor  foolish  loving-blinded  man 
If  he  had  died  in  running  to  your  aid. 

"But  I  was  late,  ere  I  could  reach  the  place 

The  demons  had  descended  to  the  ground: 

Each  pointed  wing 

A  moment  fluttering, 

And  then  the  demons  ran  to  an  embrace 

With  those  white-shining  ones,  and  made  a 

sound 
Of  joy  and  brotherhood,  and  gripped  each 

hand, 
And  laughed  for  merriment  and  danced  for 

glee, 


84  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

And  shouted  salutation  band  to  band, 
And  held  and  kissed  each  other  lovingly. 

"After  a  little  time  I  stole  away, 

I  scarce  could  steal  away  for  crazy  pain: 

I  heard  them  plan 

Of  time  and  space  and  man, 

And  what  to  do  each  in  a  different  way 

And   far   apart,    and   when    they'd   meet 

again. 

Alas,  we  are  betrayed !  the  devils  are 
Blood-brothers  of  the  gods,  where  shall  we 

see 

But  in  each  other  now  a  guiding  star? 
Ah  comrades,  do  ye  also  fly  from  me?" 


THE  FAIRY  BOY 

A  little  Fairy  in  a  tree 

Wrinkled  his  wee  face  at  me : 

And  he  sang  a  song  of  joy 

All  about  a  little  boy, 

Who  upon  a  winter  night, 

On  a  midnight  long  ago, 

Had  been  wrapt  away  from  sight 

Of  the  world  and  all  its  woe: 

Wrapt  away, 

Snapt  away 

To  a  place  where  children  play 

In  the  sunlight  every  day. 

Where  the  winter  is  forbidden, 
Where  no  child  may  older  grow, 
Where  a  flower  is  never  hidden 
Underneath  a  pall  of  snow; 
Dancing  gaily 
Free  from  sorrow, 
Under  dancing  summer  skies, 
85 


86  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Where  no  grim  mysterious  morrow 
Ever  comes  to  terrorize. 

This  I  told  a  priest  and  he 

Spoke  a  word  of  mystery, 

And  with  candle,  book  and  bell, 

Tolling  Latin  like  a  knell, 

Ruthless  he 

From  the  tree, 

Sprinkling  holy  water  round, 

Drove  the  Fairy  down  to  hell, 

There  in  torment  to  be  bound. 

So  the  tree  is  withered  and 
There  is  sorrow  on  the  land: 
But  the  devils  milder  grow 
Dancing  gay 
Every  day 

In  that  kinder  land  below : 
There  the  devils  dance  for  joy 
And  love  that  little  wrinkled  boy. 


WHAT  THE  DEVIL  SAID 

It  was  the  night  time,  God  the  Father  Good, 

Weary  of  praises,  on  a  sudden  stood 

Up  from  His  throne  and  leaned  upon  the 

sky, 

For  He  had  heard  a  sound,  a  little  cry, 
Thin  as  a  whisper  climbing  up  the  steep. 

And  so  he  looked  to  where  the  Earth  asleep 
Rocked  with  the  moon,  He  saw  the  whirl- 
ing sea 

Swing  round  the  world  in  surgent  energy, 
Tangling  the  moonlight  in  its  netted  foam, 
And  nearer  saw  the  white  and  fretted  dome 
Of  the  ice-capped  pole  spin  back  a  larded 

ray 

To  whistling  stars,   bright  as  a  wizard's 
day. 

But  these   He   passed  with   eyes  intently 
wide, 

87 


88  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Till  closer  still  the  mountains  He  espied 
Squatting  tremendous  on  the  broad-backed 

Earth; 

Each  nursing  twenty  rivers  at  a  birth. 
And  then  minutely  sought  He  for  the  cry 
Had  climbed  the  slant  of  space  so  hugely 

high. 

He  found  it  in  a  ditch  outside  a  town, 

A  tattered,  hungry  woman  crouching  down 

By  a  dead  Babe — so  there  was  nought  to 

do, 
For  what  is  done  is  done,  and  back  He 

drew 

Sad  to  His  Heaven  of  ivory  and  gold; 
And  as  He  sat,  all  suddenly  there  rolled 
From  where  the  woman  wept  upon  the  sod 
Satan's    deep    voice,   "O,    thou    unhappy 

God!" 


TO  THE  TREE 

Ballad !  I  have  a  message  you  must  bear 
Unto  a  certain  tree :  I  may  not  tell 
Where  she  abides,  only,  she  is  more  fair 
Than  any  tree  that  grows  down  in  the  dell, 
Or  on  the  mountain  top,  or  by  the  well, 
Or  as  a  lovely  sentinel  beside 
The  roaming  stream.     No  words  can  speak 

her  well, 

Nor  lyric  sing  enough  her  arms  so  wide, 
Her  grace,  her  peace,  her  innocence,  her 

happy  pride. 

Come  quickly,  Ballad,  back  to  me  again, 
After  you  have  delivered  to  the  tree 
My  humble  service,  and  if  she  will  deign 
To  trust  you  with  a  message  back,  then 

see 

Most  strictly  you  forget  no  word  that  she 
Shall  speak  to  you,  no  lightest  yes  or  no: 
And  what  she  looked  like  when  she  spoke 

of  me, 

89 


90  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

And  if  she  begged  you  stay,  or  bade  you  go, 
Or  hesitated  ere  she  said — what  you  shall 
know. 

Say — I  will  come  before  the  day  is  done, 
When  the  cool  evening  trembles  to  the  dark 
And  one  ray  only  of  the  dying  sun 
Rests  on  her  topmost  branches,  when  the 

lark 

Dips  steeply  to  the  grasses  in  the  park 
And  only  now  and  then  sends  from  below 
Her  sleepy  song:  then,  swift  as  to  the  mark 
An  arrow  flies,  so  swiftly  I  will  go 
Nor  stay  until  her  branches  wide  I  halt 

below. 

There  is  a  crow,  a  fowl  of  evil  fame, 
Whom  one  day  by  the  grace  of  God  I'll 

slay, 

Because  he  has  adventured  to  my  dame 
And  in  her  bosom  hides  himself  away : 
A  wicked,  curious  crow,  all  hoary-gray; 
He  listens  to  her  heart  that  throbs  so  fleet 
Along  the  trunk  and  by  the  slender  way 
Of  her  young  veins  whereat  the  branches 

meet: 


TO  THE  TREE  91 

A  curious,  bad,  old,  wicked  crow  and  in- 
discreet. 


Most  Beautiful!  of  every  tree  the  queen! 
About  her  feet  the  grasses  wave  for  glee, 
About  her  feet  the  forest  folk  are  seen; 
The   timid   nymph   bends   down    a   ready 

knee, 

And  mighty  Pan  himself,  unwillingly, 
Yet   all  perforce,   must   stoop  before  her 

grace, 

And  round  about  in  a  wild  ecstasy 
The  light- foot  satyrs  (stayed  from  an  em- 
brace) 

Stare  shamefully  and  dance  and  mince  with 
antic  pace. 

Fortress  of  melody!  well  hidden  heart! 
Deep  bosomed  lady  whom  I  love  so  well ! 
Dear  solitude  of  singers  without  art! 
Sweet  shadiness  wherein  I  long  to  dwell, 
Enrapt  and  comforted  from  any  spell 
Of  thought  or  care  or  woefulness  or  sin; 
Or  trouble  which  a  man  may  not  foretell; 


92  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Or  slothful  ease  which  it  is  death  to  win ; 
Or  fear  which  cometh  at  the  last  and  creep- 
eth  in. 

If  you  among  her  little  leaves  will  fly 
And  what  they  whisper  bring  to  me  again, 
Dear  Ballad,  I  will  write  your  history 
Upon  a  sheepskin  with  a  golden  pen; 
It  shall  be  read  by  women  and  by  men : 
Each  youth  will  sing  it  to  his  paramour 
As  they  go  roving  in  the  evening  when 
All  joy  is  innocence  and  love  is  lore, 
And  you  and  youth  and  love  will  live  for 
evermore. 

Rapture  and  joy  and  ecstasy  and  pain ! 
The  windy  trumpets  of  the  void  shall  soar 
Over  the  sky.     The  Morning  Stars  again 
Will  sing  together  joyous  as  of  yore : 
The  sea  shall  tramp  with  banners  on  the 

shore : 
The  little  hills  skip  merrily  along 

The  forest  leave  its  field  and  with  a  roar 


TO  THE  TREE  93 

Stride  down  the  pathway  shouting  out  a 

song, 
And   everything  be  happy  as  the  day  is 

long. 

Envoi 

Ballad,  farewell!  go  tell  her  how  I  burn, 
Say  I  am  dead  until  her  face  I  see : 
And  I  will  wait  and  sigh  till  you  return, 
And  plague  the  god  of  love  and  life  to 
favour  me. 


ORA  PRO  NOBIS 

A  bird  is  singing  now; 

Merrily 

Sings  he 

Of  his  mate  on  the  bough, 

And  her  eggs  in  the  tree; 

But  yonder  a  hawk 

Swoops  down  from  the  blue 

And  the  bird's  song  is  finished 

— Is  this  story  true? 

God  now  have  mercy  on  me  and  on  you. 


AFTERWARDS 

Maidenhood,  maidenhood,  whither  art 
thou  gone  away  from  mef  Never  again 
will  I  come  to  thee}  never  again. — Sappho. 

Am  I  a  bride? 

I  scarce  can  think  it,  I 

Who  yesterday  was  quick  to  blush  and  hide 

Behind    my    mother's    skirts,    and    often 

cried — 

(Foolish  to  be  so  shy) 
When  strangers  came  and  mother  was  not 

nigh. 

Strange,  I  am  wed! 

Wife  to  be  held  and  kissed! 

And  no  one  chides  his  head  beside  my  head, 

Nor  cries,  "Thou  bad  thing,  fie!"  but  all 

instead 

Smile  blessingly.     I  wist 
It  is  a  wonder  tale     .     .     .     yet  something 

dear  is  missed. 

95 


96  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

No  longer  free. 

Love's  captive  I  am  ta'en. 

.     .     .     Now  whither  art  thou  gone  away 

from  me 
Dear  maidenhood?     "O,  I  am  so  far  from 

thee. 

And  howso  thou  complain, 
I  never  more  may  come  to  thee  again." 


THE  END  OF  THE  ROAD 

To  & 

This  is  a  thing  is  true, 
Everything  comes  to  an  end: 
The  loving  of  me  and  you, 
The  walking  of  friend  and  friend. 

Shall  I  weep  the  beauty  I  knew, 
Or  the  greatness  gathered  away 
Or  the  truth  that  is  only  true, 
As  the  things  that  a  man  will  say? 

The  child  and  the  mother  will  die, 
The  wife  and  the  husband  sever, 
The  sun  will  go  out  of  the  sky, 
And  the  rain  will  be  falling  for  ever. 

For  ever  until  the  waves  rear 
To  the  skies  with  a  terrible  tune, 
And  cover  the  earth  and  air, 
And  climb  up  the  beach  of  the  moon. 
7  97 


98  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Then  go,  for  all  things  must  end, 
And  this  is  true  as  I  say — 
A  friend  will  be  leaving  a  friend, 
And  a  man  will  be  going  away. 


WIND  AND  TREE 

To  M 

"A  woman  is  a  branchy  tree 
And  man  a  singing  wind, 
And  from  her  branches  carelessly 
He  takes  what  he  can  find: 
Then  man  and  wind  go  far  away 
While  winter  comes  with  loneliness, 
With  cold  and  rain  and  slow  decay 
On  woman  and  on  tree  till  they 
Droop  down  unto  the  ground  and  be 
A  withered  woman,  a  withered  tree; 
While  wind  and  man  woo  undismayed 
Another  tree,  another  maid." 


EVE 

Long  ago  in  ages  gray, 

I  was  fashioned  out  of  clay: 

Builded  with  the  sun  and  moon, 

Kneaded  to  a  holy  tune; 

And  there  came  to  me  a  breath 

From  the  House  of  Life  and  Death. 

Then  the  sun  roared  into  fire, 
And  the  moon  with  swift  desire 
Leaped  among  the  starry  throng 
Singing  on  her  journey  long; 
And  I  climbed  up  from  the  sod, 
Holding  to  the  hand  of  God. 

In  a  garden  fair  and  wide 
Looking  down  a  mountain  side, 
Prone  I  lay  and  felt  the  press 
Of  Immensity's  caress, 
There  a  space  I  lived  and  knew 
What  the  Power  meant  to  do. 
100 


EVE  101 

Till  upon  a  day  there  came 
Down  to  me  a  voice  of  flame, 
"Thou  the  corner-stone  of  man, 
Rise  and  set  about  my  plan, 
Nothing  doubting,  for  a  guide 
I  have  quickened  in  thy  side." 

From  the  garden  wide  and  fair, 
From   the   pure   and  holy   air, 
Down  the  mountain  side  I  crept 
Stumbling  often,  ill-adept; 
Feeling  pangs  of  woeful  bliss 
Rounding  from  the  primal  kiss. 

Then  from  out  my  straining  side 
Came  the  son  who  is  my  guide: 
Him  I  nursed  through  faithful  days 
Till  I  faltered  at  his  gaze, 
Staring  boldly  when  he  saw 
I  was  woman,  life,  and  law. 

Life  and  law  and  dear  delight: 
I  the  moon  upon  the  night 
All  alluring:  I  the  tree 


102  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Growing  nuts  of  mystery : 
I  the  tincture  and  the  dew 
That  the  apple  reddens  through. 

I  desirable  and  sweet: 
I  of  fruitfulness  complete: 
I  the  promise  and  the  threat 
Which  the  gods  may  not  forget: 
I  the  Weaver  spinning  blind 
Destinies  for  humankind. 

Lifting,  lifting  ever  up 
Till  I  reach  the  golden  cup: 
Groping  down  and  ever  down 
Till  I  find  the  buried  crown : 
I  the  Searcher  sent  to  bring 
Plumes  for  the  Almighty's  Wing. 

Weaving  Life  and  Death  I  go : 
Building  what  I  do  not  know: 
Planting  tho'  in  sore  distress, 
Gardens  in  the  wilderness: 
Palaces  too  big  to  scan 
By  the  little  eye  of  man. 


EVE  103 

Knowing  surely  this  is  true, 
That  the  thing  I  have  to  do, 
Has  been  ordered  by  the  breath 
From  the  House  of  Life  and  Death : 
It  no  wind  of  chance  or  wide 
Cloud  of  doubt  may  set  aside. 

Still  the  sun  roars  out  in  fire, 
And  the  moon  with  pale  desire 
Keeps  the  path  appointed  her 
In  the  starry  theatre: 
Sun  and  moon  and  I  are  true, 
To  the  work  we  have  to  do. 


THE  BREATH  OF  LIFE 

(To  Elizabeth  Bloxham) 

And  while   they  talked   and  talked,   and 

while  they  sat 

Changing  their  base  minds  into  baser  coin; 
And  telling — they!  how  truth  and  beauty 

join, 

And  how  a  certain  this  was  good,  but  that 
Was  baser  than  the  viper  or  the  toad, 
Or  the  blind  beggar  glaring  down  the  road. 

I  turned  from  them  in  fury,  and  I  ran 
To  where  the  moon  shone  out  upon  the 

height, 

Down  the  long  reaches  of  a  summer  night, 
Stretching  slim  fingers,  and  the  starry  clan 
Grew  thicker  than  the  flowers  that  we  see 
Clustered  in  quiet  fields  of  greenery. 

Around  me  was  the  night-time  sane  and 
cold, 

104 


THE  BREATH  OF  LIFE          105 

The  clouds  that  knew  no  care  and  no  re- 
straint 

Swung  through  the  silences,  or  drifted  faint 
To  pale  horizons,  wreathing  fold  on  fold, 
The  moon's  sharp  edge,  each  rolling  cloud 

a  sea, 
A  foam  of  silver  shining  gloriously. 

The  quietudes  that  sunder  star  from  star, 
The  hazy  distances  of  loneliness, 
Where  never  eagle's  wing  or  timid  press 
Of  lark  or  wren  could  venture,  and  the  far 
Profundities  untravelled  and  unstirred 
By  any  act  of  man  or  thought  or  word. 

These  held  me  with  amazement  and  de- 
light: 

I  yearned  up  through  the  spaces  of  the 
sky, 

Beyond  the  rolling  clouds,  beyond  the  high 

And  delicate  white  moon,  and  up  the 
height, 

And  past  the  rocking  stars,  and  out  to 
where 

The  ether  failed  in  spaces  sharp  and  bare. 


io6          THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

The  breath  that  is  the  very  breath  of  life 
Throbbed  close  to  me:  I  heard  the  pulses 

beat, 

That  lift  the  universes  into  heat : 
The  slow  withdrawal,  and  the  deeper  strife 
Of  His  wide  respiration,  like  a  sea 
It  ebbed  and  flooded  through  immensity. 

His  breath  alone  in  wave  on  mighty  wave ! 
O  moon  and  stars  swell  to  a  raptured  song ! 
Ye  mountains  toss  the  harmony  along! 
O  little  men  with  little  souls  to  save 
Swing  up   glad   chantings,   ring  the   skies 

above, 
With   boundless    gratitude    for   boundless 

love! 

Probing  the  ocean  to  its  steepest  drop; 

Rejoicing  in  the  viper  and  the  toad, 

And  the  blind  beggar  glaring   down  the 

road; 

And  they  who  talk  and  talk  and  never  stop 
Equally  quickening;  with  a  care  to  bend 
The  gnat's  slant  wing  into  a  swifter  end. 


THE  BREATH  OF  LIFE          107 

Searching  the  quarries  of  all  life,  the  deep 
Low  crannies  and  shy  places  of  the  world, 
To  warm  the  smallest  insect  that  is  curled 
In  a  deep  root,  or  on  the  sun  to  heap 
Fiercer  combustion,  spending  love  on  all 
In  equal  share,  the  mighty  and  the  small. 


The  silence  clung  about  me  like  a  gift, 
The  tender  night-time  folded  me  around 
Protectingly,  and  in  a  peace  profound 
The  clouds  drooped  slowly  backward  drift 

on  drift 

Into  the  darkness,  and  the  moon  was  gone, 
And  soon  the  stars  had  vanished  every  one. 

But  on  the  sky,  a  handsbreadth  in  the  west, 
A  faint  cold  brightness  crept  and  soared 

and  spread, 

Until  the  rustling  heavens  overhead, 
And  the  gray  trees  and  grass  were  manifest : 
Then  through  the  chill  a  golden  spear  was 

hurled, 
And  the  big  sun  tossed  laughter  on  the 

world. 


IN  THE  COOL  OF  THE 
EVENING 

I  thought  I  heard  Him  calling.     Did  you 

hear 

A  sound,  a  little  sound?     My  curious  ear 
Is  dinned  with  flying  noises,  and  the  tree 
Goes — whisper,  whisper,  whisper  silently 
Till  all  its  whispers  spread  into  the  sound 
Of  a  dull  roar.     Lie  closer  to  the  ground, 
The  shade  is  deep  and  He  may  pass  us  by, 
We  are  so  very  small,  and  His  great  eye, 
Customed  to  starry  majesties,  may  gaze 
Too  wide  to  spy  us  hiding  in  the  maze: 
Ah,  misery !  the  sun  has  not  yet  gone 
And  we  are  naked:  He  will  look  upon 
Our  crouching  shame,  may  make  us  stand 

upright 

Burning  in  terror — O,  that  it  were  night! 
He  may  not  come     .     .     .     what?  listen, 

listen,  now — 
He   is   here!    lie   closer     .     .     .     Adam, 

where  art  thou? 

108 


NEW  PINIONS 

I  tore  the  shackles  from  my  feet, 
The  bandage  from  my  straining  eye, 
I  spread  my  wings  above  the  street 
And  soared  upon  the  sky. 
I  knew  the  stars  for  friends,  and  knew 
The  sun  and  moon  more  happy  grew 
To  see  me  flying  by. 

And  they,  far  down  below,  who  moved 
With  hobbled  ankles,  groping  mad 
Among  the  gutters  disapproved 
And  said  that  it  was  sad 
A  man  should  want  to  leave  the  sty, 
To  spread  his  wings  abroad  and  fly 
When  garbage  might  be  had. 

But  I  in  converse  with  the  sun, 
Or  visiting  the  moon  on  high, 
Or  joining  with  a  star  to  run 
Mad  races  on  the  sky, 
109 


I  io          THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Can  hardly  find  the  time  to  spare 
A  thought  for  the  dull  gropers  there 
Who  never  lift  an  eye. 


PSYCHOMETRIST 

I  listened  to  a  man  and  he 
Had  no  word  to  say  to  me: 
Then  unto  a  stone  I  bowed, 
And  it  spoke  to  me  aloud. 

"The  Force  that  bindeth  me  so  long, 
Once  moved  in  the  linnet's  song, 
Now  upon  the  ground  I  lie, 
While  the  centuries  go  by. 

"Linnets  must  for  joy  atone 
And  he  fastened  into  stone, 
While  upon  the  waving  tree 
Stones  shall  sing  in  Energy." 


in 


THE  WINGED  TRAMP 

I  saw  a  poor  man  walking  slow, 
Scarcely  knowing  where  to  go ; 
And  from  door  to  door  he  said, 
Unto  those  who  stood  within, 
— "Give  me,  with  a  little  bread, 
Absolution  for  my  sin." 

And  the  people  always  said, 

— "Friend,  come  in  and  eat  our  bread; 

Lay  you  down  and  rest  a  while, 

Sleep  a  little  time  and  pray 

Unto  God  and  He  will  smile 

All  your  weighty  sin  away." 

Then  the  poor  man  rose  and  flew 
Up  to  God  and  no  one  knew 
He  was  God's  beloved  Son : 
And  He  told  His  Father  plain 
What  the  folk  had  said  and  done : 
— So  God  spared  the  world  again. 
8  112 


POLES 

Cleric  and  Convict  are  moulded  on, 
;The  same  old  grinning  skeleton, 
And  a  saint  might  think  if  he  looked  within 
That  the   Devil  had  gotten  beneath  his 
skin. 


CHOPIN'S  FUNERAL 
MARCH 

Yea,  ye  shall  rest,  O  be  sure  that  your  sleep 

will  endure: 
Through  the  daylight,  the  dusk,  and  the 

dark,  while  the  moon  and  the  sun 
Rise  successive  and  fail  and  die  down  when 

the  journey  is  done: 
Ye  shall  rest,  taking  heed  of  no  thing  that 

shall  come  or  shall  go: 
Ye  shall  sleep   through   the  thunder   nor 

heed  when  the  hurricanes  blow : 
When  the  strong  trees  are  felled  and  the 

rocks  topple  down  from  the  height: 
While  the  mountains  dissolve  into  sand  and 

the  valleys  upright 
Climb  stark  into  mountains  again,  ye  shall 

hear  not  a  sound, 
Secure  in  the  sleep  that  I  give  in  the  heart 

of  the  ground : 

114 


CHOPIN'S  FUNERAL  MARCH     115 

Till  the   earth   like   a   mote  through   the 

spaces  falls  into  the  sun, 
And  the  work  of  all  things  that  have  been 

is  a  work  that  is  done. 


THE  MONKEY'S 
COUSIN 

I  shall  reach  up,  I  shall  grow 
Till  the  high  gods  say— "Hello, 
Little  brother,  you  must  stop 
Ere  our  shoulders  you  o'ertop." 

I  shall  grow  up,  I  shall  reach 
Till  the  little  gods  beseech 
— "Master,  wait  a  little,  do, 
We  are  running  after  you  1" 

I  shall  bulk  and  swell  and  scale 
Till  the  little  gods  shall  quail, 
Running  here  and  there  to  hide 
From  the  terror  of  my  stride. 


116 


THE  LONELY  GOD 

(To  Stephen  MacKenna) 

So  Eden  was  deserted,  and  at  Eve 
Into  the  quiet  place  God  came  to  grieve. 
His  face  was  sad,  His  hands  hung  slackly 

down 

Along  His  robe,  too  sorrowful  to  frown 
He    paced    along   the    grassy    paths    and 

through 
The  silent  trees,   and  where  the  flowers 

grew 

Tended  by  Adam.     All  the  birds  had  gone 
Out  to  the  world,  and  singing  was  not  one 
To  cheer  the  lonely  God  out  of  His  grief— 
The  silence  broken  only  when  a  leaf 
Tap't  lightly  on  a  leaf,  or  when  the  wind, 
Slow-handed,  swayed  the  bushes  to  its  mind. 

And  so  along  the  base  of  a  round  hill, 
Rolling  in  fern,  He  bent  His  way  until 
117 


ii8          THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

He  neared  the  little  hut  which  Adam  made, 

And  saw  its  dusky  rooftree  overlaid 

With  greenest  leaves.     Here  Adam  and  his 

spouse 

Were  wont  to  nestle  in  their  little  house 
Snug  at  the  dew-time:  here  He,  standing 

sad, 

Sighed  with  the  wind,  nor  any  pleasure  had 
In  heavenly  knowledge,   for  His  darlings 

twain, 
Had  gone  from  Him  to  learn  the  feel  of 

pain, 

And  what  was  meant  by  sorrow  and  de- 
spair, 

— Drear  knowledge  for  a  Father  to  pre- 
pare. 

There  He  looked  sadly  on  the  little  place, 
A  beehive  round  it  was,  without  a  trace 
Of  occupant  or  owner:  standing  dim 
Among  the  gloomy  trees  it  seemed  to  Him 
A  final  desolation,  the  last  word 
Wherewith   the  lips   of  silence  had  been 
stirred. 


THE  LONELY  GOD  119 

Chaste  and  remote,  so  tiny  and  so  shy, 

So  new  withal,  so  lost  to  any  eye, 

So  pac't  of  memories  all  innocent 

Of  days  and  nights  that  in  it  had  been 

spent 

In  blithe  communion,  Adam,  Eve,  and  He, 
Afar  from  Heaven  and  its  gaudery 
And  now  no  more!     He  still  must  be  the 

God 

But  not  the  friend;  a  Father  with  a  rod 
Whose  voice  was  fear,  whose  countenance 

a  threat, 

Whose  coming  terror,  and  whose  going  wet 
With  penitential  tears;  not  evermore 
Would  they  run   forth   to  meet  Him   as 

before 

With  careless  laughter,  striving  each  to  be 
First  to  His  hand  and  dancing  in  their 

glee 

To  see  Him  coming — they  would  hide  in- 
stead 
At  His  approach,  or  stand  and  hang  the 

head, 


120          THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

Speaking  in  whispers,  and  would  learn  to 

pray 
Instead  of  asking,  "Father,  if  we  may." 

Never  again  to  Eden  would  He  haste 
At  cool  of  evening,  when  the  sun  had  paced 
Back  from  the  tree-tops,  slanting  from  the 

rim 

Of  a  low  cloud,  what  time  the  twilight  dim, 
Knit  tree  to  tree  in  shadow,  gathering  slow 
Till  all  had  met  and  vanished  in  the  flow 
Of  dusky  silence,  and  a  brooding  star 
Stared  at  the  growing  darkness  from  afar, 
While  haply  now  and  then  some  nested  bird 
Would  lift  upon  the  air  a  sleepy  word 
Most  musical,  or  swing  its  airy  bed 
To  the  high  moon  that  drifted  overhead. 

'Twas  good  to  quit  at  evening  His  great 

throne, 

To  lay  His  crown  aside,  and  all  alone 
Down  through  the  quiet  air  to  stoop  and 

glide 
Unkenned  by  angels :  silently  to  hide 


THE  LONELY  GOD  121 

In   the    green   fields,    by    dappled    shades, 

where  brooks, 

Through  leafy  solitudes  and  quiet  nooks 
Flowed    far    from   heavenly  majesty    and 

pride, 
From  light  astounding  and  the  wheeling 

tide 

Of  roaring  stars.     Thus  does  it  ever  seem 
Good  to  the  best  to  stay  aside  and  dream 
In  narrow  places,  where  the  hand  can  feel 
Something  beside,  and  know  that  it  is  real. 

His  angels !  silly  creatures  who  could  sing 
And  sing  again,  and  delicately  fling 
The  smoky  censer,  bow  and  stand  aside 
All  mute  in  adoration :  thronging  wide, 
Till  nowhere  could  He  look  but  soon  He 

saw 

An  angel  bending  humbly  to  the  law 
Mechanic;  knowing  nothing  more  of  pain, 
Than  when  they  were  forbid  to  sing  again, 
Or  swing  anew  the  censer,  or  bow  down, 
In  humble   adoration  of  His   frown. 
This  was  the  thought  in  Eden  as  He  trod 
.     .     .     It  is  a  lonely  thing  to  be  a  God. 


122  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

So  long!  afar  through  Time  He  bent  His 

mind, 
For  the  beginning,  which  He  could  not 

find, 
Through  endless  centuries  and  backwards 

still 

Endless  for  ever,  till  His  'stonied  will 
Halted  in  circles,  dizzied  in  the  swing 
Of  mazy  nothingness — His  mind  could 

bring 

Not  to  subjection,  grip  or  hold  the  theme 
Whose  wide  horizon  melted  like  a  dream 
To  thinnest  edges.     Infinite  behind 
The  piling  centuries  w?re  trodden  blind 
In  gulfs  chaotic — so  He  cor'd  not  see 
When  He  was  not  who  always  had  To  Be. 

Not  even  godly  fortitude  can  stare 

Into  Eternity,  nor  easy  bear 

The  insolent  vacuity  of  Time: 

It  is  too  much,  the  mind  can  never  climb 

Up  to  its  meaning,  for,  without  an  end, 

Without  beginning,  plan,  or  scope,  or  trend 

To  point  a  path,  there  nothing  is  to  hold 


THE  LONELY  GOD  123 

And  steady  surmise:  so  the  mind  is  rolled 
And  swayed  and  drowned  in  dull  Immen- 
sity. 

Eternity  outfaces  even  Me 
With  its  indifference,  and  the  fruitless  year, 
Would  swing  as  fruitless  were  I  never  here. 

And  so  for  ever,  day  and  night  the  same, 
Years  flying  swiftly  nowhere,  like  a  game 
Played  random  by  a  madman,  without  end 
Or  any  reasoned  object  but  to  spend 
What  is  unspendable — Eternal  Woe ! 
O  Weariness  of  Time  that  fast  or  slow 
Goes  never  further,  never  has  in  view 
An  ending  to  the  thing  it  seeks  to  do, 
And  so  does  nothing :  merely  ebb  and  flow, 
From  nowhere  into  nowhere,  touching  so 
The  shores  of  many  stars  and  passing  on, 
Careless  of  what  may  come  or  what  has 
gone. 

O  solitude  unspeakable!  to  be 
For  ever  with  oneself!  never  to  see 
An  equal  face,  or  feel  an  equal  hand, 


i24          THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

To  sit  in  state  and  issue  reprimand, 
Admonishment  or  glory,  and  to  smile 
Disdaining  what  has  happened  the  while! 
O  to  be  breast  to  breast  against  a  foe ! 
Against  a  friend !  to  strive  and  not  to  know 
The  laboured  outcome :  Love  nor  be  aware 
How  much  the  other  loved,  and  greatly 

care 

With  passion  for  that  happy  love  or  hate, 
Nor  know  what  joy  or  dole  was  hid  in  fate. 

For  I  have  ranged  the  spacy  width  and  gone 
Swift  north   and   south,    striving   to   look 

upon 

An  ending  somewhere.     Many  days  I  sped 
Hard  to  the  west,  a  thousand  years  I  fled 
Eastwards  in  fury,  but  I  could  not  find 
The  fringes  of  the  Infinite.     Behind 
And  yet  behind,  and  ever  at  the  end 
Came  new  beginnings,  paths  that  did  not 

wend 

To  anywhere  were  there :  and  ever  vast 
And  vaster  spaces  opened — till  at  last 
Dizzied  with  distance,  thrilling  to  a  pain 
Unnameable,  I  turned  to  Heaven  again. 


THE  LONELY  GOD  125 

And  there  My  angels  were  prepared  to  fling 
The  cloudy  incense,  there  prepared  to  sing 
My  praise  and  glory — O,  in  fury  I 
Then   roared   them    senseless,    then   threw 

down  the  sky 

And  stamped  upon  it,  buffeted  a  star 
With  My  great  fist,  and  flung  the  sun  afar: 
Shouted  My  anger  till  the  mighty  sound 
Rung  to  the  width,  frighting  the  furthest 

bound 

And  scope  of  hearing:  tumult  vaster  still, 
Thronging  the  echo,  dinned  my  ears,  until 
I  fled  in  silence,  seeking  out  a  place 
To  hide  Me   from  the  very  thought  of 

Space. 

And  so,  He  thought,  in  Mine  own  Image  I 
Have  made  a  man,  remote  from  Heaven 

high 

And  all  its  humble  angels:  I  have  poured 
My  essence  in  his  nostrils:  I  have  cored 
His  heart  with  My  own  spirit;  part  of  Me 
His  mind  with  laboured  growth  unceasingly 
Must  strive  to  equal  Mine ;  must  ever  grow 


126          THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

By  virtue  of  My  essence  till  he  know 
Both  good  and  evil  through  the  solemn  test 
Of  sin  and  retribution,  till,  with  zest, 
He  feels  his  godhead,  soars  to  challenge 

Me 
In  Mine  own  Heaven  for  supremacy. 

Through  savage  beasts  and  still  more  sav- 
age clay 

Invincible,  I  bid  him  fight  a  way 
To  greater  battles,  crawling  through  defeat 
Into  defeat  again :  ordained  to  meet 
Disaster  in  disaster:  prone  to  fall 
I  prick  him  with  My  memory  to  call 
Defiance  at  his  victor  and  arise 
With  anguished  fury  to  his  greater  size 
Through  tribulation,  terror  and  despair 
Astounded,  he  must  fight  to  higher  air, 
Climb  battle  into  battle  till  he  be 
Confronted  with  a  flaming  sword  and  Me. 

So  growing  age  by  age  to  greater  strength, 
To  greater  beauty,  skill  and  deep  intent: 
With  wisdom  wrung  from  pain,  with  en- 
ergy 


THE  LONELY  GOD  127 

Nourished  in  sin  and  sorrow  he  will  be 
Strong,  pure  and  proud  an  enemy  to  meet, 
Tremendous  on  a  battle-field,  or  sweet 
To  walk  by  as  a  friend  with  candid  mind. 
— Dear  enemy  or  friend  so  hard  to  find, 
I  yet  shall  find  you,  yet  shall  put  My  breast 
In  enmity  or  love  against  your  breast 
Shall  smite  or  clasp  with  equal  ecstasy 
The  enemy  or  friend  who  grows  to  Me. 

The  topmost  blossom  of  his  growing  I 
Shall  take  unto  Me,  cherish  and  lift  high 
Beside  Myself  upon  My  holy  throne: 
— It  is  not  good  for  God  to  be  alone. 
The  perfect  woman  of  his  perfect  race 
Shall  sit  beside  Me  in  the  highest  place 
And  be  My  Goddess,  Queen,  Companion, 

Wife, 

The  rounder  of  My  majesty,  the  life, 
Of  My  ambition.     She  will  smile  to  see 
Me  bending  down  to  worship  at  her  knee 
Who  never  bent  before,  and  she  will  say, 
— "Dear  God,  who  was  it  taught  Thee  how 

to  pray?" 


128          THE  HILL  OF  VISION 

And  through  eternity,  adown  the  slope 
Of  never-ending  time,  compact  of  hope, 
Of  zest  and  young  enjoyment,  I  and  She 
Will  walk  together,  sowing  jollity 
Among    the    raving    stars,    and    laughter 

through 

The  vacancies  of  Heaven,  till  the  blue 
Vast  amplitudes  of  space  lift  up  a  song, 
The  echo  of  our  presence,  rolled  along 
And  ever  rolling  where  the  planets  sing 
The  majesty  and  glory  of  the  King. 
Then  conquered,  thou,  eternity,  shall  lie 
Under  my  hand  as  little  as  a  fly. 

I  am  the  Master:  I  the  mighty  God 
And  you  My  workshop.     Your  pavilions 

trod 

By  Me  and  Mine  shall  never  cease  to  be, 
For  you  are  but  the  magnitude  of  Me, 
The  width  of  My  extension,  the  surround 
Of  My  dense  splendor.     Rolling,  rolling 

round, 

To  steeped  infinity  and  out  beyond 
My   own  strong   comprehension   you    are 

bond 


THE  LONELY  GOD  129 

And  servile  to  My  doings.  Let  you  swing 
More  wide  and  ever  wide  you  do  but  fling 
Around  this  instant  Me,  and  measure  still 
The  breadth  and  the  proportion  of  My 
Will. 

Then    stooping    to    the    hut — a    beehive 

round — 

God  entered  in  and  saw  upon  the  ground 
The  dusty  garland,  Adam,  (learned  to 

weave) 

Had  loving  placed  upon  the  head  of  Eve 
Before  the  terror  came,  when  joyous  they 
Could  look  for  God  at  closing  of  the  day 
Profound  and  happy.  So  the  Mighty 

Guest 
Bent,  took,  and  placed  the  blossoms  in  His 

breast. 
"This,"  said  He  gently,  "I  shall  show  My 

queen 
When   she  hath   grown   to   Me   in   space 

serene, 

And  say  "  'twas  worn  by  Eve."     So,  smil- 
ing fair, 

He  spread  abroad  His  wings  upon  the  air. 
9 


HAIL  AND  FAREWELL 

The  poem  is  sung, 

The  picture  quite 

Finished  and  hung 

In  the  candid  light; 

But  poet  and  painter  must  go  away 

Ere  they  hear  what  the  critical  people  say. 

Age  after  age, 

Without  a  break, 

A  prophet  shall  rage 

By  a  lonely  lake: 

And  know  not  ere  he  has  gone  away 

Who  is  to  listen  to  what  he'll  say. 

But  the  poet  shall  hear, 
The  painter  see 
The  praises  dear 
Of  their  mystery: 

And  poet  and  painter  and  prophet  find 
The  glory  they  thought  they  had  left  be- 
hind. 

130 


HAIL  AND  FAREWELL  131 

There  is  an  ear 

To  hear  the  song, 

An  eye  to  peer 

At  the  picture  long: 

A  brain  to  gather  the  tale  and  bless 

The  prophet  who  spoke  to  the  wilderness. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


T 


HE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of 
a  few  of  the  Macmillan  books  by  the  same 
author  or  on  kindred  subjects. 


RECENT  VOLUMES  OF  POETRY 

INSURRECTIONS 

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POEMS:     Selected  by  the  Author 
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The  dignity,  sincerity,  and  noble  simplicity  of  Percy  MacKaye's 
poem  make  it  a  fitting  Memorial  of  the  great  President,  and  no  one  who 
cares  for  Lincoln's  fame  will  wish  to  miss  this  tribute  to  his  character. 

Hitherto  Mr.  MacKaye  has  been  considered  the  most  brilliant  of  the 
younger  dramatists  of  the  day  and  one  of  the  most  promising  of  American 
poets.  The  publication  of  this  Ode,  in  the  opinion  of  critics  who  have 
read  it,  places  his  name  among  the  great  ones  in  American  literature. 

BY  WENDELL  P.  STAFFORD 

Dorian  Days  chtb,  um,,  $1.25 

A  volume  of  poems  by  Justice  Wendell  P.  Stafford,  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  District  of  Columbia.  The  title,  Dorian  Days,  comes  from 
the  fact  that  the  beauty  of  ancient  Greece  is  in  great  measure  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  volume.  This  return  to  classic  art  and  classic  myths  on  the 
part  of  one  who  has  played  so  prominent  a  part  in  the  life  of  his  own  dar 
as  Justice  Stafford  is  particularly  noteworthy. 

BY  MRS.  ELLA  HIGGINSON 

When  the  Birds  Go  North  Afgain 

Cloth,  12mo,  $1.25 

"The  poetry  of  the  volume  is  good,  and  its  rare  setting,  amid  the 
scenes  and  under  the  light  of  a  sunset  land,  will  constitute  an  attractive 
charm  to  many  readers."— The  'Button  Transcript. 

The  Voice  of  April-land  and 
Other  Poems  ««*.  ««.,  # .« 

TheChicafO  Triune  says  that  Mrs.  Higginson  in  her  verse,  as  in  her 
pioie,  has  voiced  the  elusive  bewitchment  of  the  West." 

PUBLISHED  BY 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

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JACPGS  SC€P^€NS 


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J 


[HERE  are  fe'.v  more  retiring  figures  in  the 
/  liters-y  world  than  James  Stephens, 
i  Possessed  of  genius  and  a  delightful  origi- 
ii  nality  in  thought  and  expression  which 
•  8  have  endeared  him  to  thousands,  his  un 


assuming  temperament  has  kept  him  out  of  the  lime' 
light.  Of  the  real  Stephens,  the  man  behind  the 
author,  there  are  few  who  know. 

This  is  unfortunate,  for  under  the  reserved  exterior 
there  is  a  warm  and  vibrant  personality,  immensely 
lovable  and  engaging.  Unlike  some  authors  who 
fear  to  give  anything  of  themselves  except  in  print, 
his  whimsicalities  are  so  much  a  part  of  him  that  as 
one  intimate  friend  has  said,  a  half'hour  with  him  is  like 
hearing  for  the  first  time  one  of  the  stories  in  HERE 
ARE  LADIES;  to  receive  his  letters  is  like  a  new  chapter 
in  THE  CROCK  OF  GOLD. 

James  Stephens  was  born  in  Ireland  in  1882.  A.  E. 
(George  William  Russell)  "discovered"  him  while  he 
was  working  as  a  typist  for  a  lawyer  in  Dublin.  It  is 
interesting  to  know  that  among  his  very  first  publica' 
tions  were  the  Jottings  of  a  Philosopher  appearing  in 
a  Dublin  paper.  These,  elaborated  upon,  later  be' 
came  THE  CROCK  OF  GOLD,  which  first  brought  him 
widespread  recognition  and  which  was  given  the 
Polignac  Prize  as  being  the  best  book  of  its  year. 

"What  most  separates  him  from  Irish  writers  of  the 
day,"  says  John  Cowper  Powys,  famous  English  critic 

[PAGE  THREE] 


and  lecturer,  "is  a  mingling  of  direct,  almost  Dicker 
sian  humor  with  the  poetic  sense  of  beauty  of  the 
Celtic.  His  fairy  stories,  THE  CROCK  OF  GOLD  and 
IN  THE  LAND  OF  YOUTH,  differ  entirely  from  the  work 
both  of  Colum  and  W.  B.  Yeats,  both  of  Synge  and 
A.  E.  in  the  fact  that  with  the  imaginative  poetry 
there  comes  a  bitter  aftertaste  of  drastic  human  philos- 
ophy. In  fact,  in  both  Stephens'  poetry  and  prose, 
there  is  a  universal  human  quality,  acrid,  astringent, 
saturnine,  which  gives  a  certain  weight  and  beauty  to 
his  Irish  fancies. 

"The  humor  of  James  Stephens  is  not  merely 
playful  and  roguish;  it  is  sardonic.  Here  is  'Miching 
Mallach.'  What  is  so  fascinating  about  James 
Stephens'  work  is  that  he  uses  the  quaint,  original, 
dialect  expressions  derived  from  the  Irish  peasantry  to 
pour  forth  a  certain  drastic,  but  not  altogether  dis- 
illusioned philosophy  of  his  own.  This  philosophy, 
sometimes  angry,  though  never  quite  malignant, 
mingles  with  the  smoke  of  his  offering  in  the  temple  in 
a  brazier  dedicated  to  pontifical  incense.  The  fairies 
of  Padraic  Colum  come  and  go  in  a  normal  world  of 
spring,  summer,  autumn,  winter.  But  the  super- 
natural beings  introduced  by  James  Stephens  belong 
to  some  fourth  dimension  fairyland  and  are  used  as 
symbols  for  a  strange,  occult  philosophy/' 

Mr.  Stephens  is  now  engaged  in  making  a  series  of 
books  from  the  old  bardic  tales  of  Ireland.  First  he 
gave  us  his  lovely  DEIRDRE,  for  which  he  was  awarded 
the  Tailltean  Gold  Medal.  IN  THE  LAND  OF  YOUTH 
marks  the  second  volume  of  a  work  which  it  is  planned 


[PAGE  FOUR} 


to  complete  in  five  volumes.  His  ambition,  he  de- 
clares, is  to  give  Ireland  something  that  will  correspond 
to  the  "Arabian  Nights."  To  this  end  he  has  been 
absorbing  Gaelic  literature  and  studying  the  Irish 
language  with  an  enthusiasm  and  thoroughness  which 
indicates  how  completely  he  has  found  himself  in  his 
great  task. 

Of  his  books  he  says,  "If  I  were  giving  prizes  to 
myself  I  should  certainly  hand  at  least  six  gold  medals, 
each  as  big  as  a  tub,  to  THE  DEMI-GODS,  and  I  should 
give  twenty-six  bigger  and  brighter  and  better  medals 
to  the  IRISH  FAIRY  TALES.  DEIRDRE  and  IN  THB  LAND 
OF  YOUTH  are  too  recent  for  me  to  say  much  about 
them,  but  I  will  agree  with  anyone  that  a  medal 
twice  as  big  as  a  door  would  not  half  .  .  .  However, 
you  will  gather  that  I  approve  of  my  own  books;  they 
are  my  favorite  reading  while  I  am  writing  them." 

To  read  one  of  Stephens'  novels  is  to  become  an 
enthusiast.  His  books  do  not  come  tumbling  on  one 
another's  heels.  But  all  that  he  writes  is  pure  gold 
and  well  worth  waiting  for.  Foremost  critics 
throughout  the  English'speaking  world  have  given 
him  unstinted  praise  for  the  striking  originality  and 
depth  of  imaginative  power  he  has  displayed.  In  re- 
ferring  to  THE  CROCK  OF  GOLD,  the  J^etv  Tor^  Times 
reviewer  said,  "The  book  is  full  of  sweetness  and 
whimsicality,  of  sympathy,  tenderness  and  shy  satire, 
of  merriment  and  poetry.  Similar  qualities  have  been 
shown  by  the  author  in  his  story,  THE  DEMI-GODS,  to 
write  which  he  dipped  into  the  sparkling  fountain  of 
his  apparently  inexhaustible  originality."  The 


[PAGE  FIVE| 


Atlantic  Monthly  said  "THE  CROCK  OF  GOLD  is  like 
sunlight,  ozone  and  high  spirits.  There  is  no  book  in 
the  world  the  least  like  it,  and  probably  there  never 
will  be  another." 

His  work  is  all  marked  by  a  singular  beauty,  a 
delicious,  fantastical,  amorphous,  inspired  topsy 
turvydom  which  "is  written  to  those  divine  remnants 
of  our  former  selves  which  we  may  have  had  the  luck 
to  keep  and  which  he  has  had  the  generosity  to  act  as 
if  we  had  kept  even  more  than  we  have." 


[PAGE  Sixf 


TTj  if~*\  Tj  /p    ff~~^.       1 

lie  v^rock  oi  VJoi 


First  published  in  1912,  this  delightful  book  won 
immediate  fame  and  has  enjoyed  continuous  popularity 
ever  since.  There  are  passages  which  will  bear 
comparison  for  sheer  beauty  of  expression  with  any 
English  prose  put  on  paper  for  the  past  100  years. 

It  is  a  piece  of  literary  tapestry — woven  of  such 
gossamer  filaments  as  dreams  are  made  of.  Fantasy 
it  is,  delicately  spun,  and  it  is  philosophy,  edged  with 
satire  and  tempered  with  tenderness;  and  it  is  fooling, 
the  subtle  and  delicious  fooling  which  is  not  foolish' 
ness. 

What  is  it  about?  Two  philosophers  who  lived 
in  the  center  of  the  pine  wood  called  Coilla  Doraca 
are  the  most  important  characters.  These  men  were 
so  wise  that  they  were  able  to  answer  the  questions  of 
the  Grey  Woman  of  Dun  Gortin  and  the  Thin 
Woman  of  Inis  Magrath.  No  one  else  had  ever  been 
able  to  answer  these  questions  and  the  women  be' 
came  so  furious  at  the  men  who  were  wiser  than  they 
that  they  decided  to  marry  them! 

Leprecauns,  the  great  god  Pan  himself,  and  other 
people  of  the  Little  World  figure  in  the  book,  which 
won  the  Polignac  Prize  as  being  the  best  book  of  its 
year.  Price,  $2.00. 


IPAGE  SEVEN} 


HP1         ¥""%  •     lT**     J 

I  lie  Ucmi-vJods 

• 

Patsy  MacCann  and  his  daughter  Mary,  tramps, 
the  both  of  them,  ever  pressing  on  along  the  roads  of 
Ireland  in  search  of  nothing  except  the  next  day  s 
food,  sat  in  the  dusk,  pulling  potatoes  from  the  red 
ashes.  To  join  their  party  came  three  angels,  old, 
middle  aged,  and  a  youth. 

Patsy  took  them  under  his  guidance,  and  the 
donkey  caravan  went  on  its  aimless  way,  the  only 
change  being  that  Patsy  had  to  filch  food  for  three 
more  mouths  and  provide  clothes  less  spectacular 
than  the  white  samite  in  which  they  first  appeared— 
which  he  accomplished  without  ado  by  generous 
theft. 

In  whimsical  fashion  their  wanderings  are  des- 
cribed. Strolling  the  highways  they  meet  a  curious 
ballad  singer;  an  odd  woman  of  many  lovers,  whom 
Patsy  hates  because  he  hopelessly  adores;  the  ghost  of 
an  Irish  bandit;  a  miser  who  has  thrown  his  money 
away.  The  happy,  careless  freedom  has  been  caught 
and  portrayed  with  the  audacity  and  charming  assur- 
ance  which  only  James  Stephens  could  have  given  it. 
His  original  point  of  view  and  its  expression,  is 
refreshing  indeed  and  one  loves  these  outlaws  every 
one — including  the  donkey. 

Mr.  Stephens  has  woven  his  facts  and  fancies  into 
a  deliciously  humorous  mass  of  improbability,  the 
heart  of  which  is  as  true  as  truth  itself.  Price.  $2  00 

'       ''  <K««W. 


fpAcn  EIGHT} 


Here  Are  Ladli 


Nineteen  sketches  and  bits  of  verse  make  up  this 
book.  They  are  not  stories,  for  the  most  part,  but 
character  sketches  marked  by  whimsical  extravagance. 

With  an  occasional  exception  there  is  a  woman  in 
each  of  them  and  what  more  delightful  theme  could 
have  been  chosen?  There  is  woman  adorable  and 
woman  enigmatic;  woman  alluring  and  woman  per' 
plexing;  woman  wise  and  woman  foolish.  And  Mr. 
Stephens,  in  his  mingling  of  wisdom  and  whimsicality, 
does  not  hesitate  to  mention  the  intolerableness  of 
men  and  the  selfishness  of  their  viewpoints  .  .  .  from 
(of  course)  the  viewpoint  of  the  ladies  ! 


Some  of  the  many  gems  from  these  stories  are 
quoted  below  : 

"A  wife  in  the  home  is  a  critic  on  the  hearth." 

"Our  husbands  are  barely  tolerable  until  a  lady 
friend  has  endeavored  to  abstract  their  cloying  at' 
tentions." 

"Nothing  makes  a  man  feel  better  than  letting  his 
employer  know  that  he  and  his  job  can  go  bark  at  one 
another.  It  is  the  dream  of  a  great  many  people,  and 
were  it  not  for  the  glamour  of  the  idea,  most  folks 
would  commit  suicide  through  sheer  disgust." 

The  boo\  is  priced  at  $2.00. 


{[PAGE  NINE] 


Here  b..-phens  has  come  to  the  theme  to  which 
every  Irish  wri  er  seems  born  and  predestined  to  recur 
— the  story  of  the  tragic  Queen  Deirdre  and  the 
trouble  she  brought  her  torn  country.  More  than 
Brian  Boru  or  Queen  Mab  or  even  St.  Patrick,  this 
Deirdre  legend  has  dominated  all  of  the  literature  of 
Celtic  folklore.  Almost  every  Irish  writer  of  note  has 
sooner  or  later  undertaken  to  retell  in  play  or  poem  or 
story,  Deirdre 's  tale.  Mr.  Stephens,  one  feels,  has 
done  it  once  and  for  all  time  in  a  full  length  novel. 

Says  John  Gunther  in  a  review  in  The  Chicago 
Daily  News,  "What  a  novel!  Soul-stirring  is  perhaps 
as  good  an  adjective  as  heroic.  In  it  are  poured  all  the 
glamour  and  the  ecstasy  and  the  wild  Celtic  beauty, 
together  with  the  rare  heartiness  of  humor,  of  which 
Stephens  is  master." 

The  story  itself  in  essence  is  a  simple  and  infinitely 
tragic  one.  The  young  queen  is  brought  up  in  a 
distant  castle  while  King  Conchubar  awaits  her 
maturity.  She  succeeds  in  running  away  with  her 
young  lover  and  his  two  brothers,  and  they  live  for 
many  years  in  the  tangled  bracken,  elusive  and  eter' 
nally  pursued.  Finally  she  and  her  men  are  taken. 
Sorties,  forays,  and  hand'to-hand  fighting  result. 
In  the  end — red  death. 

A  heroic  book,  indeed!  And  a  very  beautiful 
and  touching  one.  Price  $2.50. 


[PAGE  TEN) 


Extract  from  "Ms.  of  'Deirdre 


dtjktoM.  Sw./-  -ted~)  ^n  $»•  sfa,, 

hlel. 
/  *+- 


>  So  ,  ^o  /l»ttyfrCfyjJ  So 


^ay  /On. 
A  SCXA/      TTrrt  -r5U^f  /5tl 


&* 

if  fouu*,, 


IPAGE  ELEVEN| 

,^tar    D»,  ^>- 

*^*»lf^ 


In  ike  Land  of  i  on 

• 

Stephens,  who  so  well  knows  the  old  bardic 
tales  of  Ireland,  gave  the  world  his  first  version  in  the 
lovely  DEIRDRE.  IN  THE  LAND  OF  YOUTH  is  the  second. 

The  tale  opens  on  All  Hallows  Eve,  when  anyone 
who  has  the  requisite  courage  may  cross  the  boundary 
between  this  workaday  world  and  the  kingdom  of 
Faery,  where  a  minute  is  a  year,  and  where  strange  and 
surpassingly  wonderful  things  take  place. 

The  first  story  is  of  how  Nera  won  the  king's  gold 
hiked  sword  and  followed  the  men  of  the  Shi  into  that 
land  where  everyone  gets  what  he  is  able  to  wish  for. 

Here,  also,  is  the  story  of  Etain,  the  beautiful  wife 
of  Midir,  lord  of  the  Shi,  who  was  stolen  away  by  her 
husband's  pupil,  Angus,  and  was  pursued  by  the 
druid,  Bresil,  and  transformed  by  his  arts  into  an 
insect.  Born  again,  she  was  the  daughter  of  Lord 
Etar  and  married  to  King  Eochaid,  only  to  be  won 
back  at  last  in  a  game  of  chess  by  Midir,  who  carried 
her  off  once  more  to  the  land  of  Faery.  All  the  fancy 
and  whimsy  and  philosophy  of  the  famous  CROCK  OF 
GOLD  are  here,  brave  deeds  of  dauntless  men,  the  wit 
of  desirable  women,  and  the  dread  spells  of  druids 
and  masters  of  magic.  The  price  t's  $2.50. 

"IN  THE  LAND  OF  YOUTH  is  written  straight  to 
those  divine  remnants  of  our  former  selves  which  we 
may  have  had  the  luck  to  keep  and  which  he  has  the 
generosity^  to  act  as  if  we  had  kept  even  more  than 
we  have." — Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle. 

FPAGE  TWELVE! 


Irian  F  airy  1  ales 

# 

You  may  be  sure  that  the  author  of  the  CROCK  OF 
GOLD  would  give  us  no  ordinary  fairy  tales.  They 
have  the  humour  and  wisdom  and  beauty  which 
makes  them  almost  the  essence  of  poetry. 

It  is  a  book  which  is  as  fascinating  to  adults  as  to 
children.  There  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  it  will 
take  a  permanent  place  in  literature.  Mr.  Stephens 
is  a  literary  descendant  of  the  unknown  scribes  of  the 
past.  Much  that  pleased  them  delights  him. 

There  are  ten  stories  including  THE  STORY  OF 
TUAN  MACCAIRILL,  THE  BOYHOOD  OF  FIONN,  THE 
BIRTH  OF  BRAN,  OISIN'S  MOTHER,  THE  WOOING  OF 
BECFOLA,  THE  LITTLE  BRAWL  AT  ALLEN,  THE  CARL 
OF  THE  DRAB  COAT,  THE  ENCHANTED  CAVE  OF  CESH 
CORRAN,  BECUMA  OF  THE  WHITE  SKIN,  MONGAN'S 
FRENZY. 

"It  is  not  only  in  descriptions  of  what  is  gro- 
tesque that  James  Stephens  has  this  abundance  and  this 
mastery.  His  descriptions  of  things  that  have  love- 
liness  and  grace  are  masterful  too.  The  book  has  all 
the  glamour  of  Celtic  romance,  but  it  has  also  the 
humour  and  the  conscious  extravagance  that  are  in 
that  romance.  It  has  brought  us  into  a  world  of 
enchantment,  compared  to  which  the  enchantment  in 
Marie  de  France's  Lays,  and  in  the  Mabinogion  of 
the  Welsh  story  tellers,  is  only  a  far  'flung  echo." 

Padraic  Colum  in  The  Dial. 
Frontispiece  by  Arthur  Rackham.  The  price  is  $2.  50. 


fp  AGE 


Tn      mr-im     IT  ~\.  7°  ° 
he  Oill  of  V  ision 

» 

Promises  of  vast  views  and  dreamy  distances,  of 
philosophy  and  fancy  lurk  within  the  title  of  this 
volume.  Nor  is  the  reade:  disappointed. 

Stephens  first  became  known  to  American  readers 
through  verse  and  th.re  is  much  in  THE  HILL  OF 
VISION  to  retain  and  enlarge  the  popularity  that  his 
first  work  made.  An  insurgent  he  is,  but  he  realizes 
fully  the  futility  of  abuse.  Perhaps  this  is  responsible 
for  the  tolerance  lurking  beneath  even  his  most  scath- 

criticisms.        The  price  is  $1.75. 


The  freshness  and  felicity  of  James  Stephens'  poetic 
t  have  been  widely  recognized.  In  REINCARNATIONS 
is  true  poet  makes  himself  a  medium  for  reviving,  if 
the  writings,  at  least  the  memories,  of  Irish  poets 
of  from  one  hundred  to  three  hundred  years  ago. 

There  are,  he  tells  us,  only  two  translations  in  the 
lot,  and  the  name  of  the  collection,  he  says,  with 
characteristic  humor,  should  be  "Loot,"  or  "Plunder/" 
or  "Pieces  of  Eight,"  or  "Treasure  Trove." 

"Mr.  Stephens'  'bubble  of  verse/  as  he  calls  it,  is 
shot  through  with  gayety,  humor  and  musical  charm. 
It  is,  indeed,  a  bubble,  but  there  is  perfection  in  its 
fashioning. " — Springfield  Republican. 
The  price  is  $1.60. 

fpAGB  FOURTEEN! 

\  * 


When  I  was  young  I  used  to  thin\, 
That  every  eyz  peered  through,  a  chin\, 
And  every  man  was  hid  behind 
His  own  thic\  self  where  none  could  find. 

That  every  woman  in  the  street, 
Looking  fair  and  smiling  sweet, 
Was  maybe  hiding  thoughts  that  were 
7s[ot  quite  so  sweet,  nor  quite  so  fair 
As  her  \ind  smile  and  blossom  face; 
She  hid  in  some  forgotten  place 
Within  herself  and  would  not  dare 
To  let  another  see  her  there. 

And  though  Fm  older  still  I  see 
In  every  face  a  mystery. 

—from  THE  HILL  OF  VISION 


{PAGE  FIFTEEN} 


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